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B A 

M T I C L E E 

(1933 Duke Qaqticleer) 

(1934 Duke Qaqticleer ) 

(1972 Duke Qaqticleef ) 



Gentle Reader, we ask thy blessings and thy patience. It has been our 
intention to present, simply and directly, without offense to Eye or Mind, 
the sum of our experience at this august Institution. To this end hun- 
dreds have labored mightily: Editors, Sub-editors, Taskmasters, Special- 
ists and Flunkies of all description. And yet all this work would have 
been in vain, utter vain, if not based upon the firmest of Moral Founda- 
tions, which can be the only ultimate justification for such an Enterprise. 
Therefore we beg forgiveness for any unwonted Frivolity, or Lapse into 
Bad Taste, or Ribaldry, that might better have been left unattempted. For 
our Intentions have always been the best; and it is not our fault that the 
very Nature of the Photographic Medium compels us to record Reality as 
It Really Happens, however gross or crass. Believe us, we have made ev- 
ery attempt to restrain the coarser elements among us, with their Mock- 
ing Gibes and Cynical Attihides (truthfully, we cannot understand why 
anyone would desire to disparage this great gift, this College Education, 
for which eternal Gratefulness is the only due); however, they are distin- 
guished by their Perpetual Energy and Mischievousness, which make it 
quite a strain to keep up with their Wiles; besides, our Wit is short. 

Wo who are about to die salute you. 

"Consistency is the last resort of the unimaginative " -/. katz 

ge 6 You will find an opening section of photographs, a traditional feature of 

yearbooks the world over. 
18 Being a section on the quirks and foibles of our RESIDENTIAL SYSTEM. 
32 Four pages of photographs on MUSIC. 

36 Four pages of photographs on PERFORMING ARTS, including color 
40 Four pages of photographs dedicated to your friend and ours, JOSEPH 

44 Only two pages on DUKE UNIVERSITY MARCHING BAND, alas. 
46 Compensated for by a long stint of SPORTS. 
58 ROTC. Need we say more? 

68 ROACHES. What more could be said? How about: 

73 HARVE LINDER expostulates on the University Experience. 

74 Down to ground level with RICHARD KRAMER. 
78 An Interview with ELMER HALL. 

80 Whatever happened to POLITICS AT DUKE? 

86 A report from outer space: the INTERGALACTIC FOOD CONSPIRACY. 

88 Unintentional humor with OUR PRESIDENT. 

90 A CHART of our sweet university's BUREAUCRACY. Will the laughs 

never cease? 
92 Apparently not, as some of our PROFESSORS amply demonstrate. 

100 A short article on ANGUS McDOUGALL, more worth reading than all the 
works of COLLEY GIBBER. 

102 Devoted to BLACK LIFE on campus. 

110 Being the daring exploits of the OUTING CLUB. 

116 How to have fun and reach Nirvana with your BICYCLE. 

122 Memoirs by STEVE DUNN, while his buddy, 

124 STEVE EMERSON, fools around with a typewriter again. 

126 No Duke Yearbook would be complete without a couple of pages on 
DURHAM. So that's exactly what you're getting: 2 pages. 

128 The Stalwarts from the ANTHROPOLOGY DEPARTMENT can take a 
good picture now and again; selections from an exhibit. 

134 A section on STUDIO ART that just might blow your mind. It did ours, 
what was left of it after reading: 

146 A BIG TIME IN DURHAM. Study this well, gringos, and learn how to do 
the town up righi. 

150 We are lost for a title to this gallery of photos concerning Duke. Send 
your ideas to Box 4873, D.S. The winner gets to take home the most di- 
vine collection of Duke Trustees, suitable for either framing or hanging. 
Stuffed and mounted to taste. 

160 SPACESHIP DUKE - As phallic symbols go, second only to the Washing- 
ton Monument. (Brought to you by Buck Duke) 

182 A women's section, done by women. 

188 A Natural Childbirth, done by TONI KRAMER. 

195 The Everyday Spiritual Seeker's Guide to ZEN. 


211 YEARS by Steve Emerson. 

212 PHOTOGRAPHIC VISION. Bob Hewgley has culled this sequence from 

recent work by fine photographers here. 

234 Tripped-out GRAFFITI, which contrasts nicely with 

235 The DUKE TRIP. 

236 QUAVER PALE redux. 

244 No yearbook is complete without at least a couple of pages on GRADUA- 
TION. See if you can guess how many pages you're getting. No peeking, 
now. Ready? The answer is ... 2. Did you get it right? 

246 Beginning the ORGANIZATIONS section; space paid for by the individual 

262 MUG SHOTS, you mugs. 


322 We end this glorious adventure with an Open Letter to Next Year's Editor, 
by this year's; credits, specs, a staph photo phunnie entitled "THE 
SNEEZE", and maybe an extra photo or two of a humorous sort, if you're 
good, and keep your hands to yourself. 

Dear Qaq^ticleer : Damndest thing. I'm walking dowr 
to a fork in the road. The one road goes past this nici 
unUmited credit at Boomingdale's, and the other road v 
thing the cat drug in. So I say to myself, any half-ass 
neither road. I turn around and cut out. Well, gotta ru 

Hermann Hesse 

Newark, N.J. 
Dear ($aqticleei' Big Fat Deal. 

National Lampoon 

New York, N.Y. 
Dear (^aqticleer' : Likewise. 

Reader's Digest 

New York, N.Y. 
Dear ^atiticleer' I understand from a friend of mi 
the one in the National Lampoon — you know — thai 
Well, I mean, plagiarism is one thing, but you guys a 
and grits and leave the satire to more sophisticated mil 

Lester Maddox 

Atlanta, Ga. 
Dear (^aflticleef : It takes more than 1 
through the woods for three hours or r 
easily, yet it should be large enough to 
the wise forester takes along some frienc 
straggling back to Grar 

the street not bothering a soul when all of a sudden I come 
looking babe, see, with golden castles, white chargers, and 
nds around this spaced-looking chick who looks like some- 
an see this is a set-up, right? So what do I do? I don't take 
now. All the best. 

sing to have a fake letters section just like 
put out by those nice boys from Harvard? 
. Why don't you go back to your hogback 

behind L 

k to get yourself a first-rate Christmas tree. Sometimes you have to hike 
ire until you find the right one. It should be small enough to be carried 
ustain itself through the holiday season indoors. It's not easy work, but 
and makes an all-day outing of it. As for myself, I can remember years 
mother's house, all rosy-checked and with a beautiful, thick tree dragging 


Dear (^aqticleef : 

Dear Qaqticlcer : 

s plav pinochle 

wl c 

you're i 
)f thinkii 

ig aboi 


end of 
hat the 1 


y in your plans? 
• to the demandi 

' As 


no d 
if an 

holds in store for you. May we suggest that you 
ubt aware, the Navy has done a lot of overhauling 
idern world. Improved food, less severe disciplinary 
ith your personal life. Why not give us a try? We're anxious to 
illege graduate, can supply. We look forward to hearing from you. 

' double paperback a few years ago? 

J. Edgar Hoover 

Newark, N.J. 
Dear ($ailticleer : Now that you' 
you're probably doing 
include the United States Navy 
of itself in order to adjust itself I 
actions, and fewer officers that will inti 
have the kind of material that only you, 
Nathaniel Bligh, Capt. 
Recruiting Officer 
Dear (^aqticleef : Aren't you the people that published that outasite bl 
Well, this is to let you know that the wife and 1 can't stop laughing every tir 
We think you're all great. Keep up the good work. 

A. Berlin 

Durham, N.C. 
Dear ^aqlicleef : Bunch of goddam crap. 

R. Karpinos 

Durham, N.C. 
Dear Qatiticlerf : Have you ever gone up in c 
then when you're ready to move you drop belc 

Antoine de Sainte-Exupery 

Newark, N.J. 
Dear Qariticleer The little woman and I went to a movie the other night, and what do you think? Naked bodies 
all over the screen. I said to Martha that we must be in the wrong place, so we went out to the box office to get 
our money back and what do you suppose? The girl behind the window gives us this dirty look and says to us, 
"Bullshit!" like we were some kind of bums off the street. That's the way they talk, y'know. If this is the way people are 
behaving nowadays, then you can have it. 

Ralph Ginzberg 

New York, N.Y. 
Dear (^aqticleef : As I write this, time is growing increasingly short for me. I have no idea how long my mind 
will remain intact. The situation is this: 1 awoke this morning to discover that my physical form had altered to 
that of a large, hard-shelled bug of some sort. Feelers, wings, the works. I don't dare step outside for fear that my 
disgusting shape will throw the community into a panic. You are my only hope - I haven't the courage to perform 
the necessary task. You must contact the Orkin Pest Control Corporation at once, and tell them that they must 
make every effort to — but wait a minute — maybe you'd better forget that and call the boys at the sewage plant 
and have them send over a truckload of their grade-A stuff since I plan to make myself comfortable here, until 
the mothership arrives. 

Gregor Samsa 


:, N.Y. 

! Mon Semblable! Mon frere! 

The Duke Qaqticleer 
Copyright 1972 
Duke University 
Publications Board 

"When from a long-distant past 
nothing subsists, after the people 
are dead, after the things are broken 
and scattered still, alone, more fragile, 
but with more vitality, more unsubstantial, 
more persistent, more faithful, the smell 
and taste of things remain poised a long 
time, like souls, ready to remind us, 
waiting, hoping for their moment, amid 
the ruins of all the rest; and bear 
unfaltering, in the tiny and almost 
impalpable drop of their essence, the 
vast structure of recollection." 

—Marcel Proust 
Remembrance of Things Past 




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Qaqticleer. You want to start off with the Pegram thing? 
Dean Cox: Well, we had agreed last year among the people involved 
with the housing business that we were going to have to close the 
dormitories for security reasons, not only for the students but also for 
our own property, because as you know we've already had ten thou- 
sand dollars worth of furniture stolen. So I had a couple of students 
come in and asked what they were doing over the Spring holidays and 
they said they were staying here. And I said, "You know that the 
dorms are going to be closed?" "No, we don't know they're going to be 
closed." So I just started asking students who came in, "Did you realize 
. . .?" "Well, no." And then I'd open up the calendar and say, "Well, 
you see its announced that they are going to be closed." So I called 
Paula Phillips and Ella Jean Shore. They said obviously we have some 
kind of problem here because the students obviously have not read the 
calendar and seen that the dorms are going to be closed, so this is 
when we got out the questionnaire which asked the students "How 
many of you plan to stay during the Spring Break? How many would 
prefer the dorms to be closed?" We had about 200 out of all the men 
who responded (which was about eight or nine hundred) who said they 
would be staying for part of the holiday but not all of it. And then 
three to one voted in favor of closing the dormitories totally, to lock 
them up. So then we started getting the petitions — very late. It was — I 
went over there Wednesday before the Saturday that the dorms were 
to close at Spring and talked to what wound up to be about 100 to 150 
students. I explained this, but there was just an obvious disagreement 
. . . and they asked me at that time, "What would you do if we de- 
cided to offer a threat of some kind?" And we just said that we would 
— That I was unable to make a contract with a man who I know from 
the past is unable to keep it. This is what we did. And on the day of 
the closing a couple of people from the housing office just walked over 
to close up the building, and they remained so they got their letters. 
Qaqtideef : But you didn't actually try to force them out of there? 
Dean Cox: No. Nobody was arrested. Nobody was . . . forced out. . . . 
You know it's a shame that we can't have the esprit de corps that develops 




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in a good freshman house — and just keep that house as a house for the 
remaining four years. In fact, that was the reaction of every one of the 
dormitories I had, that they wanted to stay together as a group. But 
the numbers game is such that you really can't do that, because we need 
every one of those freshmen spaces to house incoming freshmen. I had 
one house that to the very last day they wanted to stay together. All 
those who had joined fraternities, other independent houses, off campus, 
they were doing to drop all affiliations just to stay together. That was 
house G, 65-66 . . . 66-67. 


Qaqjticleer : Do you find that you're sometimes sort of back up against 
the wall in the administration, or sometimes do you find yourself on 
the students' side? 

Dean Cox: Both of those, obviously. The Pegram issue was obviously 
against the students, students against the administrator. But, by and 
large, this office comes across many times as an ombudsman type. You 
know, most requests for changes residentially come through here, and 
renovation changes. So much of my time is taken that it's nigh on to 
impossible to try to get an appointment with me. Like there're ten stu- 
dents coming in this afternoon. 

0aqticleer : How do you fit in to the residential life of kids here? 
Mrs. Bushman: Well, I handle their room assignments. I've been on 
housing . . . about nine years, since the dean of men's office took over 
a function to do with housing. Before it was all done by a housing 
management and it was a business function. There was no relationship 
between the living groups and signing up for a room. There weren't 
any living groups except fraternities. But as we started to develop the 
cross sectional houses, and found that in order to build these houses, 
so that they'd be a good group, the room assignments needed to be 
done in conjunction with the student leaders of these groups, and 
therefore it was changed. The set-up was that the dean of men's office 
would handle the sign-up for the rooms and the housing management 
would merely handle the business end of the buildings, making the 
charges for the bursar to do the billing. 

Well, any student who has a housing problem comes to see me. We 
try to work out individual problems. To me, the more important part 
of our function is taking care of the individual and his problem and, 
with it, cooperating with the houses too. But I have to worry about the 
two hundred guys on the waiting list and they're important to me. I get 
really attached to my independent independents. Before 1 finally get 
them assigned, I get very well acquainted with them. 
(^aqticleef : What will happen with the rooms of the Pegram people 
that stayed over spring break? 

Mrs. Bushman: They lost their place on the roster, (pause) Um actually 
of the twenty-four guys, there were only eleven of them that planned 
to be in the house. So, a good many of them had decided that they 
were going to live off campus before they did that. 
($aqticleer : You're just following the policy that Dean Cox made, 

Mrs. Bushman: Yeah, right . . . umhm . . . 

Qaqticleer : Is that what you used as your guide line? 

Mrs. Bushman: I would agree that when someone breaks their contract, 

you can't renew the contract, no matter what the reason is. If I were 

renting property, I sure wouldn't renew a contract with someone who 

busted it. (laughs) 

. . . Mrs. Whitford does the freshmen room assignments mostly. She 
sorts them out according to the state they come from and has little 
stacks all around the conference table. North Carolina and New York, 
New Jersey and so forth. And then as she builds a house, she tries to 
match the people according to what their interests are as roommates. 
But she also tries as she goes along to get people from different parts of 
the country into a house, especially in the freshman houses. You don't 
have to worry about it in your cross-sectionals because you just de- 
velop a cross-section in there pretty much on its own. But in the 
all-freshmen houses, if you just took it in order, you could conceivably 
get a house full of New York boys or North Carolina boys, and this is 
not nearly as interesting to the kids. It's good experience for them to 
meet all kinds and I think that's why a lot of people come to Duke, to 
get in a school that has a cross-section of people. I know that's the rea- 
son I came here. I wanted to get to a different part of the country and 
meet different people than I knew up in Yankee Vermont. 

We look at this office, at least I do, as the home away from home for 
the kids, and I hope they feel that way about it. That's the impression 
we try to make, and I hope we succeed. I think we do. I started work- 
ing for Dean Robert Cox, and for me there's nobody that's ever been 
finer than him. And his whole attitude was help the individual student 
that comes to Duke to be a better man when he leaves. 

the federation: why? 

Just before freshman orientation I received an official-sounding letter 
from the president of my prospective dorm welcoming me to the house 
and extolling the illustrious history of the dorm, which included being 
named the "outstanding Independent House". When I arrived at Duke 
I was again welcomed by the president, resident fellow and the "men" 
of the house. During freshman orientation 1 was informed of the regu- 
lations on when and under what conditions "female guests" were al- 
lowed in the dorm. For the benefit of those who are unaware of the 
fact, men's dorms used to have open-opens: women were only allowed 
in the dorms for certain hours and the doors of the rooms where the 
female guests were had to be kept open. At the first house meeting an 
extensive and expensive social schedule was presented for the house's 
approval. The upperclassmen expressed their approval and the fresh- 
men followed their example. However, few of the freshmen met or got 
to know any girls; few got dates and went to the parties. The freshmen 
were not alone, though most of the upperclassmen were having the 
same experience. 

The isolation of the two campuses and formal setting around 
which one met girls was generally disapproved of. The dissatisfaction 
with the system as a whole led the house to vote to abolish its selec- 
tivity system. Later twenty-four hour open-opens were introduced] as 
they were in many other houses. 

These changes were minor, though, and did not attack the major 
problems, the physical and organizational isolation between the men 
and women that hindered the possibilities of them meeting and getting 
to know one another. The second semester of my sophomore year a 
new living-group organization was introduced at Duke, the federation. 
It was an experiment that was designed to attack the isolation between 
the two campuses. The federation was to be a living group composed 
of both men and women. However, no real group identity ever devel- 
oped and little significant change took place. 

Last year the Residential Life Committee felt that to create a true 
federation men must be moved to East campus and women to West. 

Geographical contiguity was a necessity for a federation— having to ride 
a bus to see the other members of your living -group was hardly condu- 
cive to identifying with a federation, to put it mildly. Although every- 
one was happy that women were coming to West, not so many were 
willing to move to East. Most of the house members were not very 
enthralled about vacating newly renovated dorms to move to the ones 
on East, including myself. 

Nevertheless, this fall found me staring out at Georgian in lieu of 
Gothic architecture. I found life on East campus to be considerably 
more pleasurable than on West. The campus was serene and had thick 
green grass: it was simply a prettier campus, and it provided an oppor- 
tunity to meet more girls. Not only that, but the first meeting of the 
Baldwin Federation was a great success. There were volunteers to work 
on all the committees, and activities such as a freshmen dance, a beach 
weekend, intramural sports and dorm courses were organized. Every- 
one was enthusiastic and it appeared that the federation was to be the 
panacea for all the social problems at Duke. 

As the semester progressed it became apparent that this was not the 
case. Although it carried out its planned activities, most people lost 
their original enthusiasm and participation lagged. The federation was 
not a real living-group. It had no real identity. Most of the decisions of 
what the federation was going to do were made without the knowledge 
of most of the members. There was little participation by the individual. 

But I would not say that the federation is a failure; it simply has not 
realized its potential. The federation has allowed people to meet and 
get to know each other. It has broken down the physical barriers be- 
tween East and West campuses, but as of this moment the individuals 
within the federation do not identify with it. The federation is not a 
panacea for the social problems at Duke. It requires work and partici- 
pation by the individuals within it to become a viable living-group. The 
federation concept is the most constructive idea in bettering the resi- 
dential life at Duke since I have been here; it has not been a total suc- 
cess but that does not mean we should give up on it. 


Qtaq^ticleer': When did you first hear about Baldwin Federation and 
what impressions did you form at that time? 

Anonymous Student: Last summer I was offered a choice — freshman 
house, independent dormitory, or cross-sectional federation. The last 
one would look good on my transcript so I marked the appropriate box. 
(^aTiticleef You live in a fraternity section. Has this been worthwhile? 
Anonymous Student: Yes. It took me a while to figure out why they 
weren't throwing bottles at each other, but then I realized that by inhal- 
ing from one end of the hall to the other I could detect which group 
smoked the better dope. 

^aqtideer' Did this influence your fraternity preference? 
Anonymous Student: Somewhat. 

(fiaqticleer': How do you evaluate fraternities within a federation 

Anonymous Student: There are two possibilities. The first is that fraterni- 
ties and their functions may detract from the related atmosphere which 
the federation is trying to develop. Fraternity parties are considered 
more prestigious and draw people away from the less elaborate federa- 
tion gigs. On the other hand, the federation has thrown several widely 
divergent groups into close proximity of each other, and this could be a 

good thing. 

^aqticleer. How so? 

Anonymous Student: There have been some epiphanies — "nurds drink, 

jocks think". Things like that. 

($aqticleer: So the federation has provided a positive living-learning 


Anonymous Student: That's what The Bulletin calls it, I suppose. Well, 

it's not like the girls sit in their windows and wink at you, but it's 

definitely better than West. 

0aiiticleer': I'm convinced. Do you miss the late hours of the Cambridge 


Anonymous Student: Not really. We just get hungry an hour earlier. 

While the Dope Shop is open. 

^aqticleef: What about having your classes on West? 

Anonymous Student: They're easier to cut, but when I do go over I have 

to invent reasons to stay, so I've met a lot of people just by wandering 

around between classes. 

^aiiticleef. Do you miss the urinals? 

Anonymous Student: No, toilets are easier to puke in. 

^aqticleer. It sounds idyllic. 


When we got back to school in September, we got the 
news. AAn has a house! It's an ugly house, rather like a 
Frank Lloyd Wright nightmare, but it's big and comfort- 
able, and best of all, 100% ours. It's a place to go when the 
grey gothic gargoyles become unbearable. It's a place with 
one sink, one toilet, and one bathtub in the bathroom . . . 
a place where people become individuals, not cubicles off a 
main hall. It's a place to go play bridge when you don't 
have a date, or make lasagna when you do. It's a place just 
to be friends. 




— A successful commune resembles a closeknit egalitarian family. 

— In most such communes the members are committed to a common 
ideal beyond community itself. 

— The costs are time, work, and committment: a price too high for 

— A group forming a commune should be clear on why they are com- 
ing together and on how great a committment they will make. 

— Communes require giving and sharing; those who play low-pot 
games are wasting their time in a commune. 

— Responsible anarchy is a fine ideal, but while this ability is develop- 
ing only a "KP" list will get everything done. 

— Failure to meet expectations breeds guilt, which breeds impotence, 
which leads to more failure. If you don't like yourself, you probably 
won't like being in a commune. 

— Martyrs and silent sufferers eventually blow up. 

— Communes tend to amplify, rather than cure, most hang-ups. 


Admitting that I am as much, or perhaps more, of a culprit as the 
rest of Omega West, I feel it only appropriate that I resume one more 
time my role as "Mr. Negative", chief critic, and floor mopper. I tend 
to be critical of half-assed ideals, preferring no ideals to ill-conceived 
or ill-performed ones. 

The overwhelming impression that I have as I leave Omega House is 
how very ill-prepared students at Duke (and perhaps everywhere else) 
are to deal with what I feel should be called REALITY. An ideal which 
supposedly motivates O.H. is a respect for human life and, as a conse- 
quence, a desire to support each other during moments of joy, struggle, 
and, most importantly, sorrow. I find that the group is able to give 
support only in the first of these instances. In other words, everybody 
loves a winner. The point is not that I expect things to be different, but 
that each person should know himself well enough to know whether or 
not he can offer more than a fair-weather friendship. 

And, secondly, let me make public my gut-level rejection of the 
fraternity/ sorority style of life. Having done that, I must reject this 
year's Omega West. My main objection is the pressure that can arise 
from any such group to change the behavior of certain individuals in 
the group. Individual freedom was stressed — community was what we 
were supposed to be about. Neither became realities, because this very 
duality became a tool with which individuals could manipulate the rest 
of the group to achieve personal desires which had been brought with 
them. Whether it is an advantage or a burden I don't know for sure, 
but at any rate, the only common denominator we had as a group was 
our Duke education. Our heterogeneity not only kept us from becom- 
ing a community, but led some of us into over-reacting and rebelling 
against the false ideals of community itself. 

And, thirdly, I am resentful of the facade that our group tried to 
erect for Duke and Durham, one pretending that we had placed our- 
selves closer to the day-to-day realities encountered in the outside 
world, that we had established a kinship with Mr. Natural, or, even 
better, the working class. But we had never escaped from the ivory 
tower: the inanity of assuming that problems would disappear by sim- 
ply sitting down and discussing them was barely perceived; money for 
us seemingly did grow on trees, for we had the best of everything. In 
short, we were to be envied, not for what we did, but for what was so 
lavishly given to us, no strings attached. A dream. Not a bad dream, 
but nonetheless, a dream. 















54, .^^ 


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The characters of any great play are geniuses in the words they 
speak and actions they perform. In an art form which must exist 
through the proper balance of language, movement, and physical pres- 
ence, it is the characters within the actors on stage, who are the focus 
of attention. It is they who must necessarily understand the implica- 
tions of their physical situation — the stage — and their verbal and 
poetic situation — the text — and assume the role of the arbitrator for 
both by being the spokesman for each. When the balance is off the 
result is an evening spent either listening to someone as if reading a 
rather long poem or else sitting and watching people walk around a 
very nice stage for two hours or so. 

For the longest time I used to think that people who thought of the 
theatre as a source of entertainment were crude, immoral, and not to 
be taken seriously. "If people want to be entertained," I said to myself, 
"Why don't they go to something that's supposed to be entertaining, 
like a John Wayne movie?" 

When I finally realized that John Wayne movies had a whole lot 
more to them besides an entertainment factor, I got terribly depressed. 

"Okay!" I said. (Or words to that effect) "Isn't there any place where 
these entertainment-obsessed people can go and leave me alone in 
artsy-craftsy peace?" 

"No!" screamed the flowers. 

"No!" screamed the trees. 

"No!" screamed the dust. 

The telephone rang. I answered. 

"Hello?" I said. 

"No!" screamed the operator. 

"No need to shout," I said, calmly replacing the receiver. 

But they were right. After all, circuses are entertaining and meaning- 
ful, and there are theaters of war. Entertainment usually implies in- 
volvement. And involvement is you and me and the kids down the 

Waiting For Godot is two acts long and in that time nothing really 
happens. There are only five characters, and a tree for a set. The appar- 
ent simplicity of the play appealed to me and I thought there would be 
few things to worry about. 

When I was younger, I decided I wanted to learn to play the trumpet 
because, unlike the other instruments, there were so few buttons to 
push. Miles Davis would have died. 

I began directing Waiting For Godot with no unified plan in mind. I 
had only the conviction that it was the most tremendous play I had ever 
read and that surely everyone who had ever read it would be moved in 
the same way and would visualize the same settings and movements I 
visualized and that any interpretation I had in mind had probably oc- 
curred to someone else first and so why did I even bother? 

As rehearsals progressed I took to sleeping into the late mornings 
and early afternoons, and I only did things that would secure my 
well-being and comfort. 

It is opening night, and I hate having to put on make-up. 

It is my play. My play. If it succeeds people will smile at me and say 
hello as I pass them in the hall. If it is terrible everyone including my 


parents will laugh at me behind my back, ruining my 

I love reading reviews, especially if 1 am somehow 
mentioned, and especially if something nice is said. 

Betty Hodges' review is the first to appear, in the 
Durham Morning Herald. She doesn't say anything that 
makes any sense to me, but it is well-written, bless 
her heart. 

Bill Hardy says something nice in a Chapel Hill 
paper. We are friends and I am pleased with the com- 

Peter McNamara, who writes for the Anvil, doesn't 
particularly like the show. The things that he doesn't 
like, however, are not the same things that I think were 
wrong, but I believe him to be the best of the lot of 
local theatre critics, and I respect his opinion. For some 
reason, his reviews never appear until two or three 
weeks after the closing night of a show. Emotions rec- 
ollected in tranquility, I guess. 

I tell my tech crew that I can't bear to help them 
tear down the set because I have gotten too used to 
it and it would be like tearing out a part of me. 
Actually, I just want to go home and go to bed. 1 do. 

—Doug Lovett 

ff^ * 















■ .^'J\ 


J ' «. 











F , 1 -^> 



i^^ ^: ^ 






On this page commences a brand-new Qaqticleer 
feature: a short excerpt from that game against the 
Terrapins, whom we soundly trounced, brought 
to you in glorious living black-and-white. To really 
make things jump (get it?) proceed to page 121, and 
holding the edge of the book with your thumb, 
gradually let go so that the pages flick past. Lo and 
behold, before your eyes, you may see the play 
unfold: Robby West as he cuts across court with 
the ball, throws it, returns to the post, receives 
it, and shoots. That is, if we've planned everything 
right. P.S. It will take a bit of practice to make 
it work, just like everything else in life. 

SoOC X k )Oo^o<^c:>^ 

Tom Wolfe on Football 

Have you ever by any chance seen profes- 
sional football players in person, like on the 
street? The thing you notice is not just that 
they're big but that they are so big, it's weird. 
Everything about them is gigantic, even their 
heads. They'll have a skull the size of a wa- 
termelon, with a couple of little squinty eyes 
and a little mouth and a couple of nose holes 
stuck in, and no neck at all. From the ears 
down, the big yoyos are just one solid welded 
hulk, the size of an oil burner. You get the 
feeling that football players come from a 
whole other species of human, they're so big. 




(Alan Shaw is a member of the Varsity Basketball team) 
Qaqticleef ■ Have you been happy with your Duke career? 
Alan Shaw: So far it hasn't been what I hoped it would be out of 
high school, but I think I was sort of naive in high school. Maybe I 
underestimated the toughness of the conference when 1 first came 
here, and I overestimated my ability. But now I'm catching up and 
I think by the time 1 get out of here I'm going to be very happy 
that I came here basketball-wise, and certainly school-wise, too. 
($aqticleer : That sounds good . . . 

Shaw: Some days you just can feel . . . There's just a general air 
of things around, you know. You can feel if there's a loose ball 
you're going to get it. It just . . . it's hard to say. It's almost like a 
rhythm, you know. You sort of have a feeling about it. And when 
you've got that going, man, you're in great shape; and when you 
don't, you're in terrible shape. You can lose to William and Mary 
if you don't have that together. 1 think the Carolina game is an 
example of when we had it together. At times like that, those are 
times when I'm just really proud to be on the team, and I just 
really enjoy basketball during those periods of time. It's a shame 
that they don't come more often. 

I have come to believe that talent is not the most important thing 
in any particular game. I think it's pretty obvious this year there 
were some pretty big upsets: where we beat Carolina, I think they 
had a better team. 


(fiaqticleef -. Do you think Coach Waters is pretty good at the 

Shaw: Yeah, I think he knows the tactics pretty well. He's made 
some mistakes, and I think he would admit to that. But I think, 
generally, over-all, I really see quite a bit of logic in the game plan. 
Of course, it doesn't matter what game plan you use, if you're just 
not playing basketball that night, you're going to lose. You can't 
say, "We lost because of the game plan." But I think he knows 
what he's doing. 

^aqticleef ■■ What do you think was going on between the team 
and the coach this year? I don't understand why people kept drop- 
ping out, why if they were going to leave they didn't leave en masse. 
Shaw: Well, I don't think you can generalize. I think everybody 
had their own reason for leaving. Some people had a conflict with 
the coach. Other people, 1 have to think that the reasons were 
much more than that. You know, some players could see where 
they weren't going to be playing in the future years. Some people 
consider it selfish to leave, but I think it's also in your best interest. 
I mean, it's good to say, "I'm going to be brave and stick it out 
here for four years, even if I'm going to be sitting on my fanny on 
the bench." But most people that come to Duke are pretty good 
players, and they feel they have a chance to play pro ball, and you 
don't play pro ball sitting on the bench. So if they go to someplace 
where they feel they can play better, I can't blame them for that. 
^aqticleer ■ How long have you been playing basketball yourself? 
Shaw: I started messing around in the league when I was in eighth 
grade, which is not very early. I started playing YMCA ball be- 
cause I was about six feet four in the eighth grade, and then be- 
tween that year and my ninth grade I got to be six-eight and a half, 
so the coach grabbed me out of the squad and said, "You're a bas- 
ketball player." I've been a basketball player ever since. I had a 
label: Basketball Player. 

I just have to say that the thing that probably has kept me going 
is the practical advantages of it: coming to Duke and having every- 
thing paid for, which is quite a good deal. Also, you know, it's a 
good thing for your ego, to come out and play and have people 
look up to you. It's really nice to have people ask for your auto- 
graph. I can't deny that I really like that. Of course, I don't know if 
that would be worth it in itself, because it's really very hard work. 
Also I hope to play pro ball and make some money at it some day. 
That's a big thing for me. And of course, I truly enjoy the game at 
times. When I'm playing well I really like the game. When I'm not 
playing well sometimes I just hate the game. When you're out 
there sweating your ass off and nothing's coming of it — it's very, 
very frustrating. 

One thing that I have gotten into and I think a lot of people are 
into is relying on basketball as a crutch through life. If they can't 
succeed somewhere else they go to the gym and they're a star. I try 
hard to get out of that now. I'm not so gung-ho basketball maniac 
anymore — I used to be that way in high school. But I still want to 
win. I still give effort on the floor, 100%. It's just not going to be a 
crutch, or anything like that. 




<^:^x> { k \>c>^QO<i>.: 




1 i^ 















(Hank Minor and Katy Fetterolf, pictured below, were both cheerlead- 
ers this year.) 

Hank: Somebody came up to me the other day and said, "The trouble 
with America is there's no heroes." And I said, "No, 1 don't agree with 
that." And they said, "All the heroes are gone, you know. There's no- 
body left." And I said, "No, I don't agree with that because first of all 
probably my main hero is my Dad, and all the other heroes are my 
friends." They're heroes to me. 1 look up to them; I respect them for 
many things. I think the fraternity has shown me some of these, al- 
though my best friends are not in the fraternity. 

I could have been happy anywhere, but it just so happens that 1 
chose Duke, and I've been happy here. You work to be happy. You got 
to want it and you got to work for it, it just doesn't fall in your lap. 
Qariticleer -. How come you stopped being a cheerleader? 
Hank: I didn't like standing in front of a crowd. My ego's big enough 
as it is. People were coming up and telling me "This is a big ego trip. 
You're just out there to have people look at you." As a matter of fact, 1 
didn't like it, 1 didn't like standing out in front of all those people. 1 
was very aware of myself being in the little arena and 1 didn't like it. I 
don't like the idea of what the cheerleader is now— it's too much bur- 
lesque. It's good for the guys, but 1 think it's degrading for females. But 
we had some good times in cheerleading. It was a gas. (pause) There's 
some exhibitionist in me: lots of little kids show off. When I think 
somebody's watching I try a little harder. It's the same in sports. 

Out at Hillside I was observing a P.E. class. There was this little 
white kid. He's real wimpy; pale-skinned, wears shorts, colored socks 
and wing-tip shoes and a T-shirt. His arms are about three inches 
around. Just a wimpy little kid, you know. He takes ahold of the 
coach's arm as he's walking out, and he looks up. He goes, "A gracious 
good day to you, sir. 1 trust you've turned in the grades by now." The 
coach looks down and says, "Why, no, Herbert, 1 haven't." "Ah, well 
good then. I still have time to work on you." And they walk off to- 
gether. That little son of a bitch. 
^aqticleer : That kid's going to go far. 

Katy: People ask me all the time, "How can you stand there and smile 
so much? Don't you get tired of smiling?" No, I don't. When I'm hav- 
ing a good time, boy, I smile. When I'm out there dancing I'm having a 
fantastic time . . . but if it's a bad game, 1 feel as though I'm getting 
out and yelling because it's something that I'm supposed to do as a 
cheerleader, not something that comes naturally. 

^aqticleef : At times like that, do you think about people in the 
stands who are looking at you as a sexual object? 

Katy: Yes, that, and also you feel how artificial what you're doing is: 
how unspontaneous it is, and what little effect it's having on what 
you're trying to do. That's really been disillusioning, trying to get the 
crowd to participate more in the cheers. I think maybe we need a new 
approach to cheering, a whole new set of phrases that everyone's going 
to like yelling. Maybe the things we do now are too passe, maybe to- 
day's college student doesn't feel like saying those silly little things 
everybody said in high school. 

0aqticleer' : What do you think of the criticism that cheerleaders, and 
jocks too, are mindless, because they're not exercising their minds 
when they cheer or play a game? 

Katy: Does everybody do that all the time at Duke? There's a lot of 
loopholes in that statement. I would think that the criticism would be 
that we flaunt ourselves . . . Someone wrote a letter to the Chronicle 
last year about the cheerleaders — they called it, uh let's see, oh exploi- 

Qaqtideer : Well, it is. It's exploiting the fact that you're female. It's a 
funny, frustrated thing for people to look at secondary sexual character- 
istics, and to be reminded so strongly of the primary sexual character- 
istic, which is, you know, screwing, that it's all they can think of. 
Katy: I think that's so dull. It really makes me unhappy that I encour- 
age thoughts like that, that any of us do. Only this year have I been 
made aware, indirectly, that people actually think all those things. And 
1 just feel that's so limiting . . . it's like somebody's shot down a thing 
I really enjoy doing. It's frightening. I have all these guilt feelings now 
everytime I get out there and start bouncing around to the music. 1 feel: 
"Oh oh, I hope I'm not getting anyone excited up there . . . Let's calm 
things down, I'll kick a little lower . . ." And that's not good, that's not 
good at all for me to think about that, to get possessed with that idea. 

;ting the crowd, phot 





Political opinion in the Corps ranges from 
liberal to conservative, with most cadets non- 
committal as to political classification. Many 
cadets feel that the Vietnam War is not in 
the nation's best interests, and would like 
to see the U.S. disinvolved from the war. In 
relation to the University community, few 
cadets individually experience peer group 
pressure aimed against ROTC. However, 
group protests against ROTC as an organiza- 
tion do exist and may be somewhat disturbing 
to individual cadets. 






The most notable aspect of ROTC is its comprehensive character. As 
a student organization, ROTC represents a wide range of beliefs and 
interests, and contains a wide range of activities. Reasons for joining 
ROTC vary from a desire to belong to a particular branch of the armed 
services to a desire to avoid serving the military obligation as a drafted 
foot-soldier. Probably the biggest incentive to join ROTC is the 
financial aid which is available to its members. 

The Air Force has several avenues of participation open to its mem- 
bers. Activities range from classroom instruction to drill to parties. 
Classroom instruction is a mixture of lectures, seminars, and student 
presentations. Courses taken range from international relations to man- 
agement science. Included in the list of courses are Air Force history. 
Air Force organization and command structure, and the history and 
development of space systems. Students in most of the courses are 
required to give a classroom lecture and write a paper on an assigned 
lesson topic. 

AFROTC is divided into two major sections. Detachment 585 includes 
active duty personnel and is responsible for academic instruction and 
administration. The Detachment corps is composed solely of the stu- 
dent members of AFROTC. It is run entirely by cadets within broad 
guidelines provided by Air University and with the assistance of the 
officer assigned as Commandant of Cadets. 

Non-academic activities include both required and voluntary pro- 
jects. Drill is the major required activity. AFROTC drill is a weekly 
meeting which is devoted to activities which range from marching to 
picnics. Often included in drill meetings are lectures on the job areas 
within the Air Force. Occasionally, during the past, there have been 
open and frank discussions on the meaning and purpose of Corps ac- 
tivities, and drug abuse as a problem for military commanders. Other 
activities are occasional beer and bull sessions, a Christmas party, a 
formal dinner-dance, and occasional basketball, football, or volleyball 

The most strenuous physical activity for the AFROTC cadets is the 
mandatory bi-annual aerobics test. For this test, each cadet is required 
to run iVi miles in twelve minutes or less. The test is viewed with trep- 
idation, but most cadets pass it easily on the first try. 

— Gordon Stevenson 






ANDERSON, James Scott 
BAILEY, Arthur Emery 
BARNET, John Anton, HI 
BLASS, Jeffrey David 
BRAGDON, Charles PhiHp 
BREEDEN, James Blunt 
BROWN, Frank Ripley, Jr. 
BRYANT, Montford Wales 
BURGIN, Joe Carter, HI 
BURNS, Christopher Joseph 
CAMPBELL, Thomas Martin 
CASEY, Patrick Joseph, Jr. 
COOPER, Wade Thomas, Jr. 
CORBOY, Andrew O'Conor 
COULTER, Frank John, Jr. 
DALTON, Richard Andrew 
DUGAN, Francis Vincent, Jr. 
ELLER, Thomas David 
ENRIGHT, William Frederick, J 
ETTU5, Douglas Edward 
FYLYPOWYCZ, Andrew (nmn) 
FLANEGIN, Scott Robert 
FOWLER, John D. Marcom 
GILUAM, Brent Garland 
GRAY, William John 
HARRISON, Robert William 
HEWITT, Thomas Denison, II 
HOERBER, Warren Henry 
HORNADAY, John Albert, III 
INCE, Michael Dane 

ADAMS, Shelton John 
BOSTIC, William Miller 
COGGINS, Stacy Norman, II 
nSHER, Winfield Stitt, III 
FORD, John Bassett 
FRAILE, Robert Edward 
GIBBONS, John Albert, Jr. 
HAMILTON, Charles Samuel, I 
HOOKS, Harold LeVaughn, Jr. 
MOORER, Richard Foy 

ADAMS, David Lane 
BECKMAN, Robert James 
BESANCON, Michael David 
CARLILE, Ronald Charles 
CROSS, William Arthur 
DAVIS, Mark Charles 
DICKIE, John Albert 
EDWARDS, Bruce Johnson 
GARDNER, Emerson Norris, Jr. 
GRIGSBY, Andrew Edward, Jr 

ANSTEY, Robert Edward, Jr. 
BARBER, David Hughes 
ELLIKER, John Samuel, Jr. 
EVERETT, James LeGrand, IV 
HARLAND, Joseph "A" 
HILBIG, Peter Lawrence 
HOWELL, John Aubrey 
JOHNSON, Robert Bruce, II 
LILLY, Stuart Carlton 
NEEDHAM, William Donald 

JACOBS, Gary Stephen 
JEFFERS, Douglas Steele 
JOHNSON, Mark Owen 
JOHNSTON, Robert Craig 
KEITH, Julian Faison, III 
NIGHT, Stephen DeWitt 
LANDON, Mark Hilliard 
LUEHRS, Bruce Donald 
MARKLE, David Reed 
McCABE, Marshall Edward, III 
McCARTY, William Lacy 
McKENNA, Kevin Francis 
MEADE, Mark Arthur 
MITTELSTADT, Mark Douglas 
NOE, Curtis Howard 
O'BARR, Thomas Bayard, Jr. 
PAYNE, Leonard KimbaU, III 
PEACOCK, Mark Douglas 
PRAHL, Harry William, III 
PRA5SE, Richard Theodore 
QUIGLEY, Allen Lawson, III 
SALATA, Kalman Francis, Jr. 
SCHULER, Alan Kelly 
SICKEL, John Marshall 
STAEB, Roland Werner, II 
STANLEY, Peter Joseph 
STEWMAN, John Hayden 
SUPPIGER, Gerhart Schott, III 
WILKERSON, Timothy Reid 
ZOLNICK, Dale Andrew 


MYNDERSE, Lance Armour 
QUINN, John Patrick 
RED, Jonathan Barkley 
ROCKWELL, John Arthur 
STALLINGS, Jon Jeffery 
5TINE, Harold Edwin, Jr. 
THOMAS, David Elmore 
WALTERS, Douglas Patrick 
WOOTEN, Ray Lee 
ZIPF, Lawrence Robert 

GROTTS, Tim Douglas 
MORGAN, James Keith 
NOE, Timothy Alan 
PERRY, William Tyler 
ROAN, Richard Wayne 
SCHMID, Joseph Howard 
SHORT, William Philip, III 
SKELTON, Henry Grady, III 
VOLKER, James Robert 
ZIMERMANN, Alfred Earle 

PEITHMAN, Robert Cocking 
RICHARDSON, Howard Vernon, 
SIMPSON, Charles Cass, III 
SMITH, Janvier King 
STEELE, Peter Wallace 
TENNYSON, Nicholas Jon 
VINCENT, Michael Paul 
WILLIAMS, Lee Kearsley 
WYSE, Frederick Calhoun 
YOUNG, William Alan 



Lt. Charles S. Rivers 

Capt. Harry M. Colowitch 

Commander Bruce R. Banks 

Lt. William B. Eisenhardt 









oZt^^^? rij^jnc^jta /ne K^^^c^acnt 


One night — I believe it was around the 3rd of February — at about 4 30 in 
the A.M., I was finishing my classics when it suddenly became obvious that I 
was in desperate need of a munch. So when I finished I made a beeUne to the 
l<itchen (I've been living off campus for a couple of years now) to see what I 
could find. Our kitchen warrants a few words. We, myself and my dear room- 
mates, are all diligent students and very poor homemakers. Thus it is not odd 
to find a sink full of dishes or the stove covered with grease. And when walk- 
ing in the kitchen it is best to be wearing your shoes. Well, on this occasion I 
was quite barefooted and had therefore made my way to the fridge with my 
eyes searching the floor for possible piles of unidentifiable crud. I was just 
looking through the tomatoes (as they are my favorite late-night snack) when I 
became suddenly aware of the faint sound of music. It was an old Beach Boys' 
number, "Little Surfer Girl". I felt immediately the urge to silence it. Turning, I 
noticed a dim glow from the counter just opposite. 

I couldn't believe it. The sound was coming from under the grill. The grill is 
one of those jobs with a tray which slides in and out under a heating element 
— a coil which glows red when it's turned on. I had never heard the grill play 
"Little Surfer Girl" — or an\j music before — so I decided that I must have been 
asleep. "213-58-2595" — I recited my Social Security number, but the song 
continued. Next I thought it must be another hallucination (I'd had acid 
flashbacks before) so I started my mantra. But the song continued. I then knew 
it was Real. 

I started slowly across the kitchen, eyes trained on the glowing grill. I 
stepped — plubph — into a pile of God-knows-what, but it didn't matter. For 
there, inside the grill, was the most phenomenal sight I had ever seen. I rubbed 
my eyes but, no, it was real. There in the grill, under the warm light of the 
heating coil, on top of a couple of pieces of wholewheat bread, was a ROACH 
BEACH PARTY going full tilt — miniature portable record players and all. 
"Holy shit," I whispered, and I knew right then that something was going to 
happen. No, it wasn't Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello running along the 
browning crust. No, it was much stranger than that. For before the "shit" could 
make it all the way out of my mouth, they, the roaches, ALL turned and looked 
at me through their tiny sunglasses. 

1 was zapped, totally tripped out just like that. The most incredible rush that 
had ever passed through my brain. My "third eye" opened with an incredible 
white flash. The sound of a crashing wave, or perhaps a gigantic gong. Total 
immersion. I was thoroughly licked, bitten, kissed. Yes, kissed, for within all 
this incredible flashing they were communicating with me. I could FEEL their 
consciousness, I could feel their Life. And I could feel their ... I know you'll 
find it hard to believe ... 1 could feel their Love. 

I've smoked grass for years. I gobbled buttons and mushrooms. I've eaten the 
cleanest LSD in the world. I've meditated, I've chanted. I've huffed and I've 
puffed. But never in my whole Life had I ever been so GOD clear high. Truth 
filled me, far beyond words, far beyond thought. It was beautiful. It was 
COMMUNION. And then it was over. 

I found myself on the disgusting floor. I strained my ears but there was no 
music, just the sound of frantically crawling feet. I got up and looked into the 
grill — they were gone. I turned it off, removed the toast, made my way over to 
the butter in the fridge, buttered and ate the toast, and went to bed. 

I awoke three hours later feeling better than I had ever felt. My search was 
over; I had found the way. Everything was Right Here. Praise be. The Roaches 
were the Key. We were all the same, only they were more in Tune. Those 
same creatures who only the day before filled me with rage. The very same 
that I'd catch and feed to the spider or the mice. (The spider is a pet of sorts, 
while the mice are kept as food for the snakes.) But in spite of all the blatant 
hatred I had for them, they Loved me. 

I was on the verge of tears when my bedmate, my Love, awoke. She could 
tell I was upset, but beyond that, she knew something was entirely different 
from when she had nodded around midnight the night before. "What is it?" 
she asked. 



Tlie Roach Queen and Her Court 

Without hesitating I responded, but — to my own surprise — without a 
sound. I responded exactly. From the very root of my being. Mind to mind - 
through mind. I touched her at the very base of all thought with the answer. 
Not a word was said. Not a look was given. She knew instantaneously "what it 
was". And between us there was less than nothing. There was no distance. 
There was only One. The Same. 

In that flash she knew all that I had seen, all that I had felt in the kitchen. And 
she knew the depth of my Being, the depth of my Life and the depth of my 
Love. And I knew her. We sat there smiling with tears streaming down our 
faces. We were Real. We were ONE. Oh GOD. 

And then we touched our bodies together as never before and energy just 
sang up and down our spines. Our bodies glowed like a double star. Yes, we 
were like two stars, disregarding all barriers, accelerating toward one another. 
Our breaths became our one thought, feelings became one. Lingam-yoni. Far 
beyond Orgasm. 

When we returned we found that we had been surrounded by more roaches 
than I had ever seen. Hundreds, no, thousands of the Beautiful Beings, all wav- 
ing their antennae to us. We knew at once that they had been blessed by the 
Energy of our Union, the incredible blast of our Orgasm. We then saw the 
Form of Life. Everything was Clear, the Law was Exact, Immaculate. 

The Roaches Loved Us and Loved Our Love. We Loved Them. It was Right. 
Entirely Right. Our orgasm was a star of Truth and Oneness and a Blessing to 
the World. And then it became more clear. There we were . . . Here we are 
. . . Right Now in a world filled with Life. All around and through there is 
Life. And all the Beings with All their Love . . . O GOD . . . And even as we 
Flashed this the roaches all began making Love. Not screwing, not fucking, 
but making Love. We lay there Together and watched and felt and were 
blessed. Each Orgasm soared us higher and higher, each touching us deeper 
and deeper. O Lord. 

It was during this that my roommates came rushing into my room. They had 
been drawn there like moths to a flame. Immediately they were included. To- 
tally included. No one spoke. No one needed to speak. And our Being grew 
and grew. The room boiled with Energy, yet we were all completely at peace. 
The form was so Right, the moment so NOW. 

Just then we became aware of a very low hum. The room was growing 
darker by the second. I turned to the window, where the sun only minutes be- 
fore (although it seemed like an eternity then) had shone brightly with the 

But now it was completely obscured. By more and more roaches. But that 
made perfect sense. It was totally Right. We were only participating in the 
Whole, and what was meant to be was going to have its time. Soon we were all 
covered with roaches, crawling over us with such care, with such Love. We 
soared ever higher. And then something changed. 

Suddenly the roaches began fleeing — each to his respective home. Immedi- 
ately it was clear what had occurred. This whole thing was just a taste. Just a 
stimulus, a Gift. The Law had been revealed. The vehicle, or perhaps only a 
vehicle, had been experienced. The form of Life had focused and blurred. We 
had felt Love for the first time. We had been GOD. 

That was three months ago. Since then we have learned much. We have 
learned more of how to earn this incredible Gift. Between us we have had 
times of Complete Trust and Total Love. And each time it gets deeper and bet- 
ter. But we know that it will never be Perfect until you, every single one of 
you, and we, really accept the Truth of Our Life. I don't mean our lives. 1 mean 
OUR LIFE. Because that Is the way It Is. And I didn't make it that way. And 
Jesus Christ can never make it that way. Because it IS that way. So thank you 
and Peace. 





Campus; CrusJabe 
for Cf)ris;t 

o50 ( k )^o^c:>Oc>: 

Opening with "Now let us sing," the Campus Crusade for Christ meeting 
was off and running (or rather singing). At first it looked as though we actually 
were going to "sing til the power of the Lord comes down". We covered "Amaz- 
ing Grace" on through "I've got that joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart 
(where?) down in my heart. . . ." The Crusaders best summed themselves up, 
though, when they sang, "we are one in the spirit, we are one in the Lord." 
They started their meeting a Leadership Training Class (LTC) that used the Bi- 
ble as its textbook, with friendliness and enthusiasm. 

With the help of the Crusaders, I was partially (but not totally) prepared for 
the revival meeting. It was amazing. The meeting was held that night in one of 
the barren Psych classrooms with glaring, artificial lights that are great for pre- 
venting eye strain, but poor for providing out-of-the-limelight corners for 
strangers to hide in. Feeling something like a mannequin trapped in a display 
window, I entered the room and sat down. Immediately, the people present 
began ripping off my mask of I'lnconnu (they absolutely refused to play the 
game of we-don't -know-that-person-so-let's-just-leave-her-alone). LTC partici- 
pants kept coming up to me and saying something like, "I don't think I know 
you," or "Hi, I'm Laura". I was defensive. They were overwhelmingly, frighten- 
ingly friendly! 

Before the Crusade meeting embarked on that evening's lesson (Paul's sec- 
ond missionary voyage as depicted in Acts), one of the members raised her 
hand and asked if she could say something. Smiling, she announced that, "Both 
my brothers became Christians this weekend!" Instantly, faces lit up and mur- 
murs of "Praise the Lord" reverberated around the classroom. Then Rich, the 
president, made a prayer request. He wanted to remind everyone that next 
Sunday Margaret would be speaking in her Dad's Sunday school class. "He's 
not a Christian," Rich said, "and we've been praying for him for so long." 

To a Campus Crusader, the criteria for earning the title Christian differs from 
what most "Christians" consider it to be. Those people such as church deacons, 
Sunday school teachers, good fathers and mothers, etc. who try to become 
Christians by good words — good conduct, church attendance, reading the Bi- 
ble, praying, and so on — don't fully achieve their goal in the Crusade sense 
unless they receive Jesus Christ "personally" into their lives. Crusaders feel that 
it is by believing that Jesus Christ died for man and thus inviting Him to direct 
one's life that one becomes a "Christian". The need for a Christian to have a 
Christ-controlled life, according to Bill Bright, founder and president of Cam- 
pus Crusade for Christ International, is because the Christian life is a superna- 
tural life which only "our Lord Jesus Christ" can live. How does the Christ- 
controlled life differ from the self-controlled life? In this: that the individual 
has surrendered his entire self — his intellect, emotions, and will — to Christ. 
Christ then becomes the problem-solver for the person, carrying his burdens so 
that he is not overcome by the trials of the world. This eliminates many of the 
problems created by man's carnal, selfish actions, though it does not cause the 
individual to become problem free. In a self-controlled life, the person follows 
his own desires and struggles with his problems without fully permitting divine 
assistence. Bright illustrated this point of a Christ-controlled life by telling in 
the pamphlet, "How to Walk in the Spirit," about a breakfast confrontation he 
once had with his five-year-old son Brad. It seems that one morning, when the 
Bright family was having a special dish, egg in a bonnet, for breakfast, Daddy 
Bright noticed that Son Bright was not eating. 

Daddy: "Brad, eat your breakfast." 

Son; "I don't want it." 

Daddy: "Of course you do. You'll enjoy it. Look at me; I am enjoying mine." 

Son: "Well, 1 don't like it and I'm not going to eat it." 

At this point. Son Bright begins releasing a few tears for dramatic effect and 
Daddy Bright considers his next course of action, i.e. whether to present an 
either-or proposition (either you eat it or I'll spank you) or to eat it himself. 
Suddenly . . . INSPIRATION! 

Daddy: "Brad, who is on the throne of your life this morning?" 
Son (tears really beginning to flow now): "The devil and me." 
Daddy: "Whom do you want on the throne?" 
Son: "Jesus." 
Daddy: "Let's pray." 
Son: "Dear Jesus, forgive me for being disobedient and help me to like this 

"God heard the prayer; and Brad enjoyed his breakfast." 

At the meeting, the Crusaders prayed for guidance from the Holy Spirit. 
Then Rich began the discussion on Paul's evangelism. Using a map (rather ap- 
propriately entitled "The Cradle of Christianity") and Acts chapters 15-17, the 
LTC participants traced the route of Paul's second missionary journey. As part 
of the lesson, they attempted to determine what had made Paul such a good 





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Campus Crusade for Christ International • Arrowhead Springs • San Bernardino, CA 92404 

During the meeting. Rich suggested that the focus of Acts was the need for 
Christians to go to non-Christians. The Campus Crusaders, in this respect, ad- 
here closely to Acts. In fact, one of the major grievances that non-Crusaders 
have against Crusaders is that they tend to persistently inflict themselves upon 
others. In their eagerness to share "the good news of the Gospel" with others, 
the Crusaders don't wait for people to come to them, they make opportunities 
to go to people, even if it is just going into dormitories and "knocking on 
random doors". They have actually been known to enter dorm rooms without 
knocking first. Because of this, they have met with resistence in the dormito- 
ries. These problems that members have with sharing Christ's love were men- 
tioned at the meeting. One of the Crusade members commented that she used 
to take it as a "personal affront" when someone would tell her to "just get out" 
or that she couldn't "share" with a dorm. She added, however, that she realized 
now "God has better plans somewhere else and He doesn't want me to waste 
time". Rich warned the group that "you can badger people to death, but if they 
aren't ready, the only thing it will do is hurt them . . . you need to be sensitive 
to God's leading." 

My formal contact with Campus Crusade for Christ began last January when 
I accidently showed up at a Chronicle staff meeting and was assigned to cover 
the Crusade-sponsored Andre Kole presentation. In a darkened Page audito- 
rium, Kole, attempting to appear "mod" by wearing a flamboyant white suit 
and "non-short" hair, used the first half of his presentation to present a variety 
of magic tricks. I was only mildly impressed. The person three seats down 
from me was even less impressed; he kept explaining very authoritatively to his 
companion how the tricks were being performed. (Certain ones even I could 
figure out.) During the second part of the presentation, the evangelism began. 
Kole stated and restated that anyone who was not interested in this part was 
free to go. Then he testified. According to Kole, Jesus said, "I came that they 
might have life, and might have it more abundantly" (John 10:10). 

"If I had not experienced this in my own life, then I would not be here to- 
night," Kole added. 

He continued his discussion by commenting that the 27 Biblical signs which 
will herald the second coming of Christ are happening now. These signs, which 
include an increase in wars, earthquakes, and famines, are being given for the 
hope and encouragement of Christ's followers, Kole said. He then concluded 
his presentation with an updated version of the rabbit out of the hat trick; he 
pulled a women out of a transparent globe of the world. (Not even my knowl- 
edgeable three-seats-down companion could explain that one.) 

My experiences with Crusade would have ended there except for two things; 
one, I was "drafted" to do another story on Crusade for the Chronicle, and 
two, by the end of Kole's presentation, my masochistic tendencies got the bet- 
ter of me and I filled out a comment card indicating that I wanted more infor- 
mation about the presentation. As a result of the comment card, I received a 
form letter from Andre Kole and a pamphlet entitled "Jesus and the Intellec- 
tual" by Bill Bright. A few days later, Sharon, a member of Duke's branch of 
Campus Crusade contacted me. We arranged to eat lunch together and "dis- 
cuss" the Kole presentation. The trepidation with which 1 greeted this up- 
coming ordeal only increased when, upon meeting Sharon, I discovered that 
she had brought another Crusade member, Christy, along with her. Somewhat 
overwhelmed by the two to one odds, I meekly followed the two into the cafe- 
teria. We chatted through lunch discussing all those mundane items necessary 
for a let's-get-to-know-each-other conversation. Then the conversation 
changed. They asked me what I thought of Andre Kole. I hedged. They asked 
me how I would describe Jesus Christ. 1 hedged again. Christy and Sharon then 
told me about their relationships with Christ. Unlike the many testimonies that 
one hears at revivals and reads in Crusade literature, neither Christy nor Sha- 
ron were verging on physical death or an extreme emotional trauma at the time 
they invited Christ into their lives. Both, though, did note that matters began 
getting better, but not perfect, after spiritual rebirth. 

Christy and Sharon both "took a hint" when, after listening to them I indi- 
cated (don't call me, I'll call you) that I wanted nothing further to do with the 
Crusade organization or Crusade beliefs in the near future. We remained, how- 
ever, on a friendly "hi" basis. The last time I saw either of them was during 
final exams. Christy telephoned me and suggested we meet for dinner. She and 
a friend, another Crusader (they seem to always travel in two's), met me in the 
East Union. Over dinner we talked about the Crusade sponsored Explo '72, the 
staff position Christy would have in the Crusade next year, and summer plans in 
general. Christy also asked about the Crusade article she knew I was doing, but 
had not yet seen appear in the Chronicle (it was for the (^aqticleef ). 

Through my contacts with Crusaders, I began hearing about Robbie. Robbie, 
at 19, had been involved in underground groups, with guerilla tactics, as well as 
having been on and off drugs for the past three years. Part of the time he had 
sold drugs. A year ago last June, Robbie needed some money. So he got some- 
thing, called it acid, and sold it. Two problems. The stuff really was acid, and 
he sold it to an undercover agent. Because of his past record, Robbie's lawyer 
told him he faced a 10-40 year prison sentence. Robbie couldn't take the idea 
of all that time spent in prison. He couldn't take the idea of dragging his family 
through another trial. So he collected all the barbiturates he could and took 
them. The doctors didn't expect him to live. They still can't explain how he 
managed to regain consciousness. Robbie didn't want to live, but he was alive. 




Over the years some of his friends had shared with him about Jesus Christ. 
Robbie decided to try Christ to help him out of this mess. Since he didn't want 
to go to a state hospital, he asked God to work it out so that he could go to a 
private one. At the time, this really seemed like an impossibility. However, ar- 
rangements were made, and that fall Robbie found himself in Duke Hospital. 
He began to feel the need to straighten things out between himself and God. 
One of the student nurses arranged for Mike, a Crusade staff member, to meet 
with him. About a week later, Robbie attended Andre Kole's presentation. That 
night things began to make sense to him and he started reading the Bible, deter- 
mined to finish it within a month. He did. Mike started meeting with him almost 
daily, and the Crusaders began praying for him. Changes were happen- 
ing in Robbie. At first he had refused to look anyone in the face, now he be- 
came a very enthusiastic person. Mike noticed that Robbie, on his own, took 
down the "gross" pictures he had drawn that depicted some of his past experi- 
ences with drugs and replaced them with pictures of Christ. Robbie started 
sharing his experiences with others. The Crusaders continued to pray for him. 
When he went to court in March, the undercover agent who arrested him never 
showed up. The Judge told him that as a result he wouldn't have to come back 
to court for another 12-14 months and then, depending on his behavior in the 
intervening time, the charges might be dropped entirely. Robbie went home. 
Once he had believed that his home church was hypocritical. Now he is teach- 
ing Sunday school class on how to live the abundant life. 

Just before Robbie left the hospital, he shared with the other members of his 
group therapy session his life-changing experiences with Jesus. The doctor pres- 
ent commented that everyone has to find something to get rid of his problems. 
Immediately Robbie responded by saying that in the past three years, Jesus had 
been the only source which he had found that really helped him. 

All the Crusaders I met appeared genuine in their feelings and beliefs about 
God. At the Crusade meeting, they prayed for God to "give us real motivation 
and love of people so that we can see them and ache for them and through this 
love share You". Using Student Action and Collegiate Challenge, two publica- 
tions of Campus Crusade for Christ, Inc., as well as a person to person ap- 
proach, the Crusaders share with others their life-transforming experiences 
with Jesus Christ. Many people, though, for many reasons, are anti-Crusade. 
Some dislike the organization because of its "structuredness;" the implication 
that either you follow Bill Bright's spiritual laws or you are unable to know 
God. Others disagree with the feeling often given off by Crusade members, 
presentations, and literature that either you put Christ on the throne of your 
life or you plan to spend eternity in Hell. Many simply object to the pressure 
tactics frequently used by Crusaders to force their beliefs onto others. And a 
few don't like being made to feel that a good Christian eats an egg for break- 
fast each morning. Campus Crusade for Christ is a group which is not for me. 
Yet there are those (If one is to believe what one hears and reads) who do de- 
rive enormous benefit from it. Like Robbie's doctor said . . . everybody needs 
to find something to help him survive his problems. 

— Susan Carol Robinson 



My high school counselor 

told me that I could just about take my pick of the colleges I wanted 
to attend; and I believed her (I wanted to). And every day the mail box 
was full of college catalogs and application forms. Don't ask how or why 
I chose to come to Duke. The question has been put too many times 
already, and whatever amorphous reasons there might have been have 
long since faded. But that is all irrelevant now. The reality is that 1 am 
at Duke and have been for the past four years, and what I've found in 
those four years is what I want to share with you in part before I leave. 

I used to think of Duke as a place with a lot of unrealized "poten- 
tial". It has a wealth of academic resources and at least the capacity to 
acquire more, coupled with a profusion of "highly intelligent" (I use 
the term loosely) minds. We have all heard that one of Duke's greatest 
assets is its "intellectual atmosphere". And most of us have come to 
realize that the statement really means that, in the way of pasttimes, 
there is actually very little else to do at Duke University in Durham, 
North Carolina besides study. Now that's alright, mind you, for those 
bookworms (what I had intended to be) amongst us who are able to 
transpose their subjective beings onto the pages of a text, or for the vi- 
sionaries (what I am fast becoming) who see, not the present, but the 
fruits that lie ahead. It is, however, unfortunate for most of us that we 
are too much bounded by the stark reality of the here and now. And 
consequently, the most common creative attitude I've known Duke to 
foster is one of escapism. It manifests itself in various forms, but it is 
always an attempt to depart from the oppressive reality of the Duke 
University experience, be it by transferring oneself bodily to an alter- 
nate institution, or by being at Duke while not a part of Duke. For 
those of us who remain — those who don't have the grades to transfer, 
but managed somehow not to get punched (You don't just punch out, 
you are punched out by an impersonal, computer-programed, value sys- 
tem that authoritatively dictates which alpha numbers do and do not 
meet the requirements for continuation within the system), it is a mat- 
ter of shielding ourselves from the putrifying atmosphere, cutting our- 
selves off to avoid being alienated by a University that tried to be 
"large enough to serve you, but small enough to know you", but some- 
how ended up being neither and, so, got caught up in the garbage of 
only rhetoric. The expanse between what Duke tries to be, or ought to 
be, or what we expected it to be, and what it is turns the stomach. 

There were times when my whole sphere of consciousness just 
wanted to withdraw, to close into a shell. I thought of transferring after 
my freshman year. It was a trying year, an extremely trying year. Not 
only did I have to adjust to the irrevocable pressures of college-level 
academia and the usual depression and gloom that visits the 
first-semester frosh when the novelty and adventure of being away at 
college has worn off, mid-term exams and grades become threatening, 
the leaves fall, the grass dries up, and the brown, orange, and russet 
hues of the massive cloistral stones fade into somber medieval gray; 
and then it begins to rain, not just on the outside, but a cold dreary 
drizzle that soaks deep into the very soul and arouses a painful identity 
crisis that begs and pleads to know, in the face of all this misery. 
"What am I doing HERE?" — and there is no answer; but I also had to 
cope with a subtle liberal white racism that defied comprehension not 

only in my mind, but, I sometimes think, even in the minds of those 
who dispensed it. It rocked me out of a naive contentment, belittled me 
as a human being, and took away for two and a half long years the 
perpetual smile I had always worn. 

What Duke seems to offer in greatest abundance is frustration and 
disappointment. It is almost analogous to an example of a biochemist 
trying to synthesize life when all of the necessary components are pres- 
ent in the requisite proportions, but whatever animating force there is 
that causes these elements to "live" is somehow absent. Duke, similar- 
ly, has the knowledge and the resources, but somehow there is no crea- 
tive synthesis. I said it was "almost analogous" because I believe that 
the problem involves more than just a conspicuous absence. There 
seems to be, in addition, a stifling presence that somehow inhibits the 
desired synthesis. There is something in the atmosphere at Duke that 
stagnates the mind rather than stimulates it. 

And it is not because Duke has not tried. In many ways, it has per- 
haps tried too hard, but tried to be something it should never have 
strived for — to be the Harvard or the Princeton of the South, instead 
of realizing itself as an institution of its own merits. In trying to emu- 
late the qualities of others, it failed to develop any qualities of its own. 
In its efforts to set itself off as a crystal lagoon apart from the brine, it 
became more like a stagnant tidewater pond. Perhaps the analogy 
seems a bit extreme, but Duke fosters extremes of feeling. 

The most adopted coping strategy is a progessing cynicism that 
grows out of the naive optimism of the freshman mind and becomes 
increasingly bitter and more sarcastic as the Duke experience wears on. 
The consensual attitude toward Duke is one of cynical degradation. 
We set ourselves aloof, cast our debasements like so many stones. 

Fortunately (more for the individual, but as well, for the institution) 
this cynicism begins to diminish as the ultimate escape comes nearer. It 
is not so hard then to delay the gratification one seeks. The second 
semester senior thinks of little else but "getting out". He has neither 
the time nor the desire to fill his thoughts with cynicism; he becomes 
apathetic to all the issues he once became impassioned over. 

To view myself, I am not nearly as cynical as I used to be. What I 
have stated so far was set down, not in bitterness, but in reflection. The 
bitterness has faded; the cynicism is past; there is no longer the need, 
even though the basic nature of the institution has changed only negli- 
gibly. But my face is brighter because Duke is every day less and less a 
part of my existence. I will soon be gone — I am departing this faction- 
alized existence. It is no longer mine to change, for I am too near the 
ultimate escape. But I would exhort those who remain to attack the 
problem rather than insulate yourselves from it, as I and so many oth- 
ers have done. Escape is a poor solace to the conscience. One should 
rather fight that from which one would escape. To me, the institution 
seemed invincible. It will seem to harden not only in spite of your 
efforts, but because of them. The struggle may have to take a different 
tack than those of the past. As I pointed out, it is not the changing of 
the superstructure that will accomplish the goal, but the alteration of 
the underlying dispositions. And dispositions, you will discover, are 
hard as hell to change. 

— Harve Under 



Excerpts from the Journal 
of a Professor of Psychology 

A koan is a parable used to meditate upon. One such is the famous 
koan Mu. It goes like this: 

A monk once asked Joshu (a famed teacher): 'Has a dog Buddha- 

Joshu said: "Mu" 
I was in my early twenties and fresh into graduate school. I had come 
with the desire to learn psychotherapy. Actually, the story goes back a 
little farther. For a moment in high school I had aspired to be an engi- 
neer, a scientist. I took chemistry and physics and bought a shde rule 
and a Merrick manual. I did well in the courses, fairly well. I got by 
mainly on native wit and common sense. My fantasy of being a disci- 
plined and productive scientist bore no relation to my behavior in the 

"so M. k )Oo<)c:><)o 

classroom or to my real interests. The fantasy was a means of bolster- 
ing my insecure self-image, because underneath I felt less than mascu- 
line. Castration anxiety notwithstanding, the more personal issue was 
one of life style and way of relating to the world. It was not that I was 
feminine. It was that I was a boy; and boys have a way of fearing man- 
hood, for with it comes a responsibility for the order of the world. A 
scientist could control things and have no fear. But I was always a poet 
at heart, much pained by inhumanity and much attuned to some sense 
of purpose, questing for that purpose; and also, there were the peaceful 
times in the cherry tree when I conversed with God. I mean not in the 
actual sense, no visions or hallucinations, but philosophical conversa- 
tions with myself. And then my speaking would cease and I was there 
in the crotch of the cherry tree, the wind, the bark against my palm. 
Feeling the fur of the dog at the base of the tree, not with my hands, 
but with my mind. 

The problem has been for me not in the synthesis of the ideas but in 
the systematization requisite for the presentation of that synthesis. And 
furthermore, in attempting an objective and propositional form for the 
presentation of those ideas I find I lose consciousness of the synthesis 
itself; for the synthesis is so very much involved in how I act at the 
moment as a social being. The intellectual community can only accept 
for consideration academic questions regarding the nature of the hu- 
man experience and the development of consciousness. The paradox 
lies in the fact that the answer to all academic questions resides only 
within oneself and only in highly individuated form. More properly, 
the question of the nature of human existence is not an academic ques- 
tion. The answer makes a difference for the deportment of the ques- 
tioner. For myself, the rational program itself would commit me to no 
action. My mind, my intellect that is — only a part of my total con- 
sciousness, assures me that writing is itself an irrational act; it says: Do 
not write; your character and personality are not suited to articulating 
your consciousness in any understandable way. What you have to say 
is too highly personal to be of value, and more than likely will only 
put your reader to sleep, and does him a disservice by drawing him 
away from his own inner being. And indeed if his motive is entertain- 
ment, you ought not reinforce his need not to be focused on himself. 
But my heart, which organizes reality according to the erotic principle, 
finds pleasure in narcissistic contemplation of its own nature and goals, 
and it tells me that I must write or die, and that if I continue to write I 
will die, and my mind will not quit the field. 
NOTE: Split brain research gives credence to the notion that the asym- 



metry of consciousness is represented in the asymmetry of the twO 
halves of the brain. The right brain thinks in gestalts; it is the intuitive, 
appositional man within. The left brain is the rational ego, ordering the 
world on a linear time axis, endeavoring to keep the body alive, qua 
individual or qua civilization. 

The lover and the logician alike are each only good when their behav- 
ior, even when doing logic (and especially when making love) is not a 
reflection of the social mask they wear but is produced and generated 
by the self. 

The erotic organization of reality stands in opposition to the purely 
mental organization of reality, for the heart bids us act and the mind 
bids us wait. Logic as applied to facts cannot ever present the self with 
a causal explanation which brings conviction, for the self experiences 
itself as acausal; we never view ourselves at more than one moment at 
a time. Yet the heart beats a rhythm of its own. 

Man has two ways of thinking. They are mutually exclusive yet 
complementary views of the nature of things. On the one hand (the 
right hand), time is linear and is to be conserved in the interest of sur- 
vival. Such an epistemology generates the getting and spending that 
has meant progress for the ego and the civilization. The other way, of 
eternity and timelessness, leads man to question the nature of his parti- 
cipation outside of the question of his own survival. It is within this 
frame of reference that time has no ontogeny, but is rather a construct 
held as real in some game plan of which no man seems fully conscious. 
Indeed it is easy for the disenchanted to come to regard Duke as the 
last stronghold of Satan, the Blue Devil. I mean when you think about 
the waste of talent and misappropriation of resources, it seems some- 
times that we're caught totally in the marketplace ethic. This place 
seems out of balance, there seems no comitment to service; and the 
disbursement of resources is predicated on the financial return for the 
product. Simply put, Caesar wants his interest. 

But there is another, meliorating side. It is in the very Cave of Satan 
where we find the seed of God, dead though He may be. He rises in 
our consciousness, we are witnessing a birth of consciousness. It is vi- 
brant and alive and I shiver to consider it. My Lord, can you imagine 
what it is like to witness your child being bom. To see something come 
from nothing. To see a live and howling human baby come bursting 
forth from the mouth of the Ganges. 
The history of Mu 

Mu — In English, nothing. Has not. There is no one to have a nature. 
Don't ask foolish questions. There is only the Buddha-nature. (True 
nature, Buddha-nature: Not something to attain, but something to un- 
cover.) The recognition that objective statements, verbal statements, 
which follow logical form, can never of themselves articulate truth. 
Words themselves cannot but point to truth. I read or consider the 
thoughts I would express, and though I claim self-awareness (some 
kind of objective recognition of the full complement of causes and 
motivations that lead me to commit an act), the putting on paper of my 
thought reifies my ego. 

As sand irresolutely falls through the neck of the glass, so the gravity 
of my soul rests now at the bottom of my life, and more and more, day 
by day, I feel myself outside of things. 

A vast sphere is before me, a sphere which I can no longer enter. 

He who in action sees inaction, and in inaction sees action is wise 
among men. He is united, he has accomplished all action. 

Bhagavad-Gita, Ch. 4, verse 18 
Instincts are the representation in the objective world of a subjective 
program of which we are but partially conscious. Of the many in- 
stincts, certainly one that arises in the course of ontogeny (arises in the 
sense that it comes to its critical period) is the instinct to uncover the 
unconscious aspects of the program. 

Day (1964) has found that human subjects can be reliably classified as 
left or right movers with respect to the direction of the break from eye 
fixation when the subject is asked to respond to a question requiring 
either reflective thought or affective self-expression. Kinsborne (1971) 
has suggested that incidental movement to one side (general orienta- 
tion, spatial preference) is the by-product of dominance within the bi- 
symmetric or split brain. The work of Gassinga, et al., and the work of 
Marsh would seem to demonstrate that correlative to breaking patterns 
one would find patterns of preference for, excellence in, ambivalence 
regarding the dual epistemological premises wired into the two sides of 
the brain. Day notes that in acutely symptomatic states the breaking 
response is absent and that variance in and discrimination regarding 
experienced anxiety is greater with left breakers than right breakers. 

We live by instinct; trust Death to have instincts of his own. 
The repetition of the syllable Mu led me to consider that both ego and 
shadow were nothing, did not exist. There were no poles to run be- 
tween. If there were pressing issues, well, let them work themselves out 
subcortically, I was busy keeping my mind free. Conflict tried to ex- 
press itself in bodily activity, but I held on, and did not move, only 
tried to relax so that my tension didn't make the pain in my legs that 
much the worse. It occurred to me that Mu was a kind of mental lobot- 
omy. The image of my face flooded my consciousness while my open 
eyes, focusing on nothing, faced the table in front of me. Almost 
immediately I congratulated the dying self on his success at birthing a 
higher self, and thereby brought him back to life. In short, I engaged 
my ego and returned to the material world of perception. Still, the en- 
tire table pulsated with color and life. The fresh fruit, the jar of 
peanut butter with its yellow and red lable. The simple table cloth. The 
utensils. All alive. 

We discipline ourselves to be moral, to be socially conscious, and we 
follow the forms with our hopes for a socially harmonious world. The 
hope stirs us on. But utopia is a state of mind; and what we see becom- 
ing is the product of another's Utopian dream. 

Worlds come and go. Personalities come and go. But, like any toy, it 
loses its fascination only with time. Explored and set aside, life begins. 
And from that point it is no different from death. Work is a process to 
learn from; tools are to be respected and passed on. But there is no 
product of our play, just awareness, openness, knowing. What we 
work on is ourselves. 

For the past three and a half years I have been teaching a large in- 
troductory lecture course in The Psychology of Personality. Personally, 
the experience has been like going through a wringer. Not that I would 
have had it another way, for I have learned much both from the trial 
itself, the doing of it, and from the searching to put myself in order — 



so as not to appear hypocritical with respect to the values and behavior 
one would expect from someone who understood personality. The 
theories of personality which we have wallowed in all suggest some 
ideal way of being in the world, or some ideal way to adapt to the stim- 
uli arising from within and without so that one can fully experience 
himself as being in the world. Education is the quest for knowledge, 
but, as the sufis say, knowledge is not to be confused with information. 
And that's part of the wringer, for while I assign books and read them 
myself, my lectures appear to many as entertaining collages which have 
no educative value, which carry no substance. 

Does what I do help people understand themselves? And anyway, 
what is the difference between entertainment and substance? Who can 
know what information will spark understanding? Man tries in one 
aspect of himself to control the world, to bring it in line with how he 
feels the world ought to be. He fights himself much of the way, confus- 
ing his sense of duty with the right with his own desires. The paradox 
is that man wants what is right, but is conditioned to think that be- 
cause he wants it it is wrong. There is no easy way around this issue, 
nor should there be. 

The quest for God or Reality is as much programmed into us as the 
tissue-deficit needs which are the instincts that keep us alive. As it 
were, each one of us is God asleep in a dream that he is not God. He 
construes the dream of his own movement through time by creating 
the illusion of time and casting himself a part in the drama of his own 

The body does not speak but is the instrument of speech. The mind 
does not think, it is but the instrument of thought. The thoughts them- 
selves are not ours; they are eternal. What then is there to fear? 

In Zen, satori is a state of recognition of the synchronousness of the 
present. The Zen ethic extolls spontaneity, and Zen tells us it is corre- 
lative with a state of "wu-wei", or no-mindedness. The ideal man is 
pictured as able to act without hesitation, without consideration, and 
without practice; i.e., he never overshoots his mark or is irrelevant with 
respect to the demands of the situation. Since most situations demand 
nothing, Zen places a premium on non-action, an avoidance of deeds 
that only generate bad karma, though from the same point of view no 
karma is bad, it's just karma. 

The pre-eminence of the right hand suggests no intrinsic virtue to 
left-brained thought. It is merely that the left side of the brain is wired 
on an epistemology which reifies the time axis; thus the right side of 
the body is presented in terms of more immediate sensory input, and 
the right side of the body expresses the same epistemological stance by 
developing itself to protect the organism as a corporate structure. 
Complementarily, lovers (in the romantic sense) face one another with 
their left sides. The left, in modern times too often seen as the sinister, 
is not only the dependent submissive; it is the side of compassion, of 
the ability to empathize in fullness with the plight of another, of loosen- 
ing the defenses carried in the right hand (left-brained concepts) and 
experiencing fully the onrush of human emotion that occurs when one 
sees himself in the unhappy plight of another, or sees himself, alone, 
struggling with a task beyond him but unafraid. 

Santayana held the view that thought was the epiphenomenon of 
behavior. This being true, a rational ordering of the irrational world 


can only obtain when the individual lives the illogical rhythms of his 
own heart. Ultimately the heart is the Sysiphus of the existentialist: 
beating its own rhythm in the winds of chance, no need to order and 
project itself as an eternal organ, playfully living, knowing it dies. 
Epiphenomenon: the smoke coming from a choo-choo train. 

There is a little book I read that turned me on called Husband 
Coached Childbirth, by Dr. Robert Bradley. My wife and I used it as a 
manual, and it worked. And looking back, it really was that experience 
that introduced the most significant changes in my head about what the 
world was like and what it could be like. Sure, maybe I am the same 
person I would have been had I not been there, but I learned a lot by 
having the experience. What 1 mean to say is the miracle is not so 
much the painless childbirth or the chance for the father to share in the 
ecstasy, but the fact that experience leads one to view the rest of reality 
in a vastly different way. Just like parapsychology. Whether it is the 
power of suggestion or whether there is a material event, the fact is 
that it is possible to stop a burn from blistering and scarring, to close a 
cut, to stop bleeding (and some other things which are too unbelievable 
to mention without more documentation than space and purpose allow) 
through the exercise of the mind. This fact alone is miraculous. But the 
miracle is not the soothed body, the miracle is what the experience of 
it as an actual occurrence does for the person when he turns back into 
the social world. He comes to see and relate to the unity of all beings. 


—Richard Kramer 



(Elmer Hall is Chaplain at Duke and advisor to the YM-YWCA) 
^atiticleef: Are most of the people working with the Y Christians? 
Elmer Hall: If you define Christians by the kind of life they live and 
what they do, yes; if you define them by credo affirmation or involve- 
ment with organized religion, they're not. That's not a requirement; so 
that we have lots of people in the organization that would consider 
themselves humanists. 

You see, the Y really is a fairly homogeneous core group of 25-35 
people for whom the (spiritual) purpose is an important, real thing. 
Most of the campus knows us by the things we do: by the draft coun- 
seling center, by the Vocations for Social Change office, by peace or- 
ganizing, by conferences we sponsor on non-violence, social change, 
and racism. So they tend to see us and define us by what we do. 
Maybe we do so many things that it is very hard to get a coherent 
picture of who we are. 

I think we're more concerned about changing institutions than we 
are with changing individual people. For example, when we take a 
strong stand and try to do something about getting AROD off campus, 
we're not doing that as a gimmick to get people to join the Y and be- 
come Christians, humanists, or our kind of people. We think AROD's 
just a bad thing because of what it does and the system which it feeds. 
(^aqticleer: Has the administration gotten down here on some of your 

Hall: No, I've been lucky in that regard. I've always been able to oper- 
ate very freely. You see, being a chaplain is the kind of job that's 
pretty undefined anyway. Some universities have decided that it is bet- 
ter for them not to have chaplains and have simply eliminated the 

^aqticleer: Because the chaplains have engaged in political activity? 
Hall: Because the chaplains have been controversial, and often times 
have been advocates of the kind of institutional change that the univer- 
sities are not willing or ready to make . . . The university exists off the 
same system that churches exist off of, and public schools, and all the 
social non-business institutions, and that is the economic system of 

The university, politically, is still structured like medieval Europe. If 
you look at the medieval community in Europe, with the Duke and the 
Duchess and the knights, and then do a parallel scheming with the way 
the university is run, in 
terms of the fiefdoms of the 
department heads, the over- 
administration of the Pres- 
ident . . . you know, it's 
just a perfect parallel. This 
is a medieval institution, and 
it's still governed like a 
medieval institution. And 
in that sense it really doesn't 
fit in to modern society at 
all. That's one of its prob- 
lems, in terms of function- 
ing, and one of the diseases 
people feel with it and with- 
in it. 

Qaqtideef: 1 wonder how 
ttiat's going to get changed. 
Hall: The only way anything 
gets changed: pressure from 
the bottom, or from the out- 
side. Well, there isn't going 
to be any pressure from the 
outside on the university, so 
that means that the serfs 
(and "serfs" in the university 
mean the lower faculty, the 

students, and the non-academic employees, because those are the people 
that aren't represented really) push and just sort of force . . . 
^aqticleer: You have a fairly revoluntionary view of a lot of things. 
Have you read much Marx? 

Hall: Yeah, I'm politically a socialist, and I would like to see socialism 
in this country, because I think it's religiously and humanly more valid 
than the apparent option — capitalism. I think capitalism perpetuates 
what I call a lot of non-Christian life styles and virtues, or rather vices 
that are called virtues, in capitalism. Like self-reliance, individualism, 
putting almost sacred value on wealth for its own sake, judging man 
not by what he is but by what he owns, what he has, or his status 
(which is usually defined economically in this society, that judges a 
man on how well he can compete). That's really the way we judge 
people in terms of the dominant values. Corporate life in this country 
is probably more dangerous in the long run to human kind than the 
militarism that's so rife. ... I think it's the corporate structure that 
pushes consumerism, that makes pollution, that encourages people to 
live on the edge of their income, so that 90% of the American people 
are in debt to some banking institution or credit company. 

. . . you know, I have as much difficulty with the rich man, or the 
rich corporation, or the rich country in the midst of poverty and mal- 
nutrition as Jesus did. He said it's about as easy for a rich man to get 
into heaven as a camel to squeeze through the eye of a needle— which 
is a pretty good image. That says something about Jesus' politics right 
there, and his attitude toward amassing private wealth: which is the 
key image on which all corporations are built — that wealth can be 
amassed without the expenditure of labor on the part of people who 
own it. That's the whole concept of investment in a stock: other people 
do your work, or machines, or something. You get something for noth- 
ing. That's what profit means, except you really get it by taking it from 
someone else. 

QTaqticleer. Has the Y worked effectively with other religious groups 
on campus? 

Hall: Not a lot that I can think of. We're a member of DUCC, the 
Christian Council. 

Qaqtideer: Hasn't there been a split of sorts in that group? 
Hall: In the spectrum of campus religious life you have religious activ- 
ists and you have religious pietists, and you don't have many people 



anywhere in between. Whenever there's any attempt to act as a whole 
body — as "religious life on campus" — there's always a polarization. 
(^aqticleer. These pietists, who would be included in that group? 
Hall: What 1 call the Christian right on campus: the campus crusade, 
the inter-varsity fellowship, the J.C. Power and Light Company — all 
people who are thoroughly dedicated folk. 1 don't have any question at 
all about their committment, but the way it works out is they turn their 
back on 'society and withdraw into themselves and into their group. 
They said when the Cambodia thing happened that they thought the 
responsible thing for Christian people to do was to pray and not to 
organize or to demonstrate or anything ... so they went into a room, 1 
guess in East Duke, and prayed for 24 hours, and were very confident 
that that was the correct response for a Christian to take — not to get 
involved in secular movements. 

($ailticleer And you're very confident that that's not the correct 

Hall: For me, yes. You know, I'm not God so I can't say that God's on 
our side. But it seems to me, in terms of everything 1 know about the 
Christian tradition, that that was a weak and inadequate response. 
^ariticleef It would be surprising to me that the Christian religion, 
which had no qualms about taking over governments, and setting up 
cathedrals here and there, and in general running the political life of 
Europe for hundreds of years; a Christian church that would have no 
qualms about that would suddenly acquire qualms about a little politi- 
cal action in the twentieth century. 

Hall: What generally happens with people who say that Christians 
shouldn't be in politics, what they mean is that Christians shouldn't be 
involved in movements to change politics. Most of these groups are 
funded by and have strong connections with the American status quo in 
terms of business establishments . . . Whenever Nixon needs some 
kind of blessing Billy gets called in. Billy Graham would function as a 
figure to this wing of the Christian student movement in much the 
same way (good parallel) as Daniel Berrigan functions as a sort of a 
model figure for the Christian left. In fact that parallel is probably 

It's probably impossible to be a citizen and be apolitical. I think the 
term "apolitical" is a mythological category. I've never seen anyone 
who existed that way, except in a merely intellectual sense. I feel pretty 
much the same way about 
a person being amoral: that's 
also a term that doesn't 
make any sense. People un- 
derstand amorality to mean 
immorality, or maybe just 
a different kind of morality 
than the one they have. 
Buta human being . . . insofar 
as you're a human being, 
you're a moral being. God 
I think of as amoral. 
Qaqticleer. 1 think if one 
IS going to accept many 
things that you seem to ac- 
cept about Christianity and 
about faith, you must look 
on time as a sacred thing. 
Hall: Oh, I agree with you 
completely. One of the bib- 
lical injunctions is to redeem 
the time. The wasting of 
time, sloth, and apathy are 
all venial sins in the medieval 

Qaqticleer What we have 
now is an institution, name- 

ly Duke University that is propagating a venial sin: the sin of Boredom. 
Hall: All right, then, that's one of the reasons that I see myself as be- 
longing here. I think extracurricular activities can have a truly redeem- 
ing quality on time spent here. Sometimes they can be the real source 
of educative meaning and personal interaction . . . 

(^aqticleer. You stated it, that's exactly the entire theme of this year- 
book. That's exactly what we're doing, because people come here to 
get educated, and they're going to get educated one way or another, 
and they spend $12,000 in tuition in four years getting educated. 
They're students, their minds are geared toward education. And yet the 
education process is not geared toward teaching. So the Y is teaching 
people about politics, how to relate it to their life. Intra-mural sports 
teaches people about their bodies. Then you have these great areas of 
darkness, black, mire, muck, you know, just plain shit, like the inside 
of dormitories, or of curricula in some departments. It seems to me that 
if sin is that which really locks a person off from spiritual endeavor, 
then sins such as those are fully as great as the sin of murder, because 
they have the same effect: what is being murdered is the spirit of peo- 
ple. Although to be fair, murder is slightly different, because murder 
does have a physical manifestation. 
Hall: It's very final. 



. . . as surely as a boiling kettle 
will not stop generating steam 
Just because a lid is clamped on it 
our ferment cannot be suppressed 
by tanks and guns. 

— wally cronkite 

(would you believe it?) 




(On May 23, the following conversations 
were recorded at random on the quad.) 
($aiiticlcef: What do you think about poli- 
tics at Duke? 

Student: What do I think about politics? 
Damn waste of time. 

^atiUcleef: Could 1 ask you a couple 


Student: All right. Is that thing going? 

^aqticJeer: Yeah. What do you think 

about politics? 

Student: About politics? I'm pretty much 


Qaiitideer: Really, in what way? 

Student: Well, 1 follow the races and stuff 
like that. Even though I don't live in North 
Carolina, 1 follow like governor and senator 
stuff, shit like that. 

^aqticleen What do you think about poli- 
tics at Duke? 
Student: Nothing. 

Qaqticleer: You must have some opinion. 
Student: No opinion; maybe if you asked 
more specific questions. 
Qaqticleer': Do you think politics plays an 
important role in students' lives? 
Student; Duke politics: You mean like 








■5( i^"^^ 



^^^.toS^3o£b 18® 

Qaiiticleer: Well sorta. 

Student: No. 

^aqticleer: What about student activism? 

Student: What about it? 

Qariticleer': Do you think there's very 

much of it here? 

Student: 1 wouldn't know. 

Qatiticleer: What do you think about 
Duke politics? 

Student: I don't give a shit about Duke poli- 
tics. Got any more questions? I love an- 
swering questions. 



(Russell Dionne was a grad student here, and an active radical during the time of student protest . • . The 
following are some of his memories of that phenomenon.) 
Qaqticleer : What was your relationship to the radical movement? 

Russell Dionne: My first year here, '67, there was the SSOC, Southern Students' Organizing Committee, 
which was a civil rights organization. When I was with it here its leading figure was Dave Hough, who 
was a law student. I'm pretty sure that this organization had been in existence the year before because 
they had a house on Chapel Hill Street which was always under close surveillance and pressure by the 
local people to kick them out. We organized a number of things; the beginnings of a guerilla theater, for 
instance, on campus. One of the things I was doing was propaganda, usually on the war, or civil rights, 
put out as evening reading material in the dining halls. Everybody had the morning paper or the Chro- 
nicle in the mornings, but at night they were sort of pressed sometimes for "food" to read while eating, 
so we would put half sheets or full sheets of paper on the dining tables. There were four or five of us 
working on that sort of thing. I would edit it, and we'd type it up, duplicate it, and then distribute it. 

We were playing around with different things, trying to figure out how to reach more people, what 
sort of things we should be doing. And it was at this time also that SDS was trying to get in on campus, 
to start an organization here. The thing is that, in order to build an organization they felt that they had 
to eliminate competition, SSOC, because that was too civil rights-oriented, as opposed to the war, which 
SDS was more interested in. They wanted ideological purity, or something like that. 
(^aiiticleef : What constituted ideological purity? 

Russell: Well, ignoring the civil rights through-the-system sort of thing, because that was almost passe, 
now. They didn't think that SSOC was radical enough, or sufficiently committed to . . . whatever SDS 
was into on other campuses. And so what they tried to do was eliminate or make converts of SSOC and 
set up their own thing, their own organization. But since the people who would be most likely to get 
involved in SDS were already involved in SSOC, the result of the whole thing was that, on the one 
hand, SSOC folded and on the other, SDS never got started. They were only a handful, three or four, 
who were trying to do something. 

The thing is, had the more political people not gotten into their rather small ideologically pure organi- 



zation, they could have tapped a lot of people, because there were a lot 
of people who were surprised by what had happened, radicalize'd per- 
haps to some extent, for a couple of weeks at any rate. But there was 
no organization that could tap them. Had something like the civil rights 
organization, or anything, been healthy at that point, it could have 
tapped a lot of people. But because of the semi-exclusive nature of the 
organizations that existed, there was a lot of stviff in the newspaper, 
etc., but not very much more. In fact, the focus, probably, of political 
activity on the campus, beginning in '67-'68, was the newspaper. I 
think the Chronicle actually is an unusually strong and significant or- 
ganization on the campus. It is unusual that there is such a large and 
interested staff or body of students who are willing to work on it. 
Qariticleer : It seems to me after four years at Duke that I've been able 
to map out a subtle change, but I'm not sure how much of that is a 
progression in myself from freshman to senior, and how much of that 
is an actual progression of the school as a body politic. 
Russell: Well, a friend of mine who's in India, Barbara Flynn, went to 
her undergraduate years here, did her Master's here, and is doing her 
doctorate now. We've talked about change at Duke, and from talking 
to her it has been a progression in the university as a whole. Barbara is 
a good witness to this change, having changed her consciousness to a 
great extent. She sort of put Duke in the news in '66-67. She's the one 
who found out and blew the story that the student was spying for the FBI. 
0aqticIeer' ■ What student was that? 

Russell: He was an advisor of some sort; student counsellor or house- 
master or something like that. And he had access to the student files. 
And so he was being paid by the FBI to look into the politics and po- 
litical organizations of some of the students. Time and Newsweek and all 
sorts of people kept calling her. The New Republic carried a two- or 
three-page article on it in the spring of '67. The question was, should 
student counsellors with access to files be paid by the FBI to report on 
the politics of students? The kid that was doing it obviously was a 
naive guy or something, because he had been bragging over a beer 
about "what I'm doing for the FBI". 

Qaqticleer : There hasn't been near the number of interesting things 
happening this year that happened those two years. 
Russell: No, right. This year the big things that happen are the con- 
certs. What you look forward to is the next concert. It's almost back 
into apathy. Duke before was a southern gentleman's school, or some- 
thing like that, and then it became radicalized for a short period of 
time, and now it's sinking back into a sleepy, apathetic sort of place. 
They wear longer hair now than they did in '65 -'66. 

In political terms perhaps it's simply frustration or despair in the 
system. No matter who's elected, the basic people will still rule the 
world: the idea that all these big political issues are illusions anyway, 
the work of power freaks who should at best be ignored, except when 
they get too much out of line. '67- '68 was one of the years that dope 
became fairly widespread on campus; that's when the fraternities 
started turning on and then dropping out of the fraternity system. That 
was a good year. It was spreading. You know, the counter-culture all 
over the U.S. was spreading. Duke being an affluent, fairly cosmopoli- 
tan campus, it was hit hard. Turning on used to be daring. Now . . . 
you just expect it — to have all sorts of neat smells coming out of the 
hallways on the Quad when you're walking on a Friday. You can get 
stoned walking from one Quad to another. 



-v-^ i-^^ , r 

(Bill Ramsey is lying down in the above photograph. Bill Griffith, Dean 
of Student Affairs, is discussing with him certain provisions of the 
Pickets and Protests Policy.) 

Bill Ramsey: Student radicalism, or new left politics in particular, can't 
be a mass movement. That's one thing we learned from the late sixties, 
that the minute we tried to turn it into a mass movement, it got 
commercialized. It started keying in on issues that weren't really in- 
volved in the primary issues. We started to try to unsell the war to the 
American people in terms of what it was doing to them, rather than 
what it was doing to the Vietnamese people. And thus, things like Nix- 
on's Vietnamization — changing the color of the corpses — it works, 
because we tried to work out a mass movement on the basis of what it 
did to me — in terms of the draft, in terms of economics, how it was 
costing American lives. Radicalism isn't the kind of thing that we can 
see in any near future as a viable alternative for a mass movement in 
America. We, Americans, are conservative people by nature, because 
of our economic system. You can't talk about cuts in the defense 
budget, because capitalism in its very nature demands to be defended, 
has to be defended. When you're using 60% of the world's resources 
and you have 6% of the people, than you're going to have to defend the 
right to do that. 

Qanticleer' ■ What do you see as being the future of radicalism: a mi- 
nority movement? 

Ramsey: In regular times, in normal times (if there's such a thing any- 
more), it's there as a constant reminder to witness, as one who wit- 
nesses to the tearing down of social barriers. But in un-normal times — 
that means when the monster surfaces, when Cambodia happens — it 
serves as a focal point to draw the masses in. It does the research so 
when the masses get ready to say something, when students are pro- 
voked by something that happens, it serves as a way of focusing that. It 
has the research, the education, the life style, that can help that mass 
movement, and it takes advantage of things like this. 
^aqticleer : How would you view the recent protests at Duke over the 
renewed bombing of North Vietnam? Would you say that Duke's radi- 
cal people were successful in stirring up the masses? 
Ramsey: 1 don't think so, no. It's partly our fault, partly the two-year 
recess that's gone on. A lot of frustration involved. People don't want 
another march, and I can almost see a point in that at some times. Not 
only that, I think you've got a student body here that's basically con- 
servative. Not in terms of what we normally mean by conservative, but 

conservative in the sense of being centered in themselves, and the is- 
sues that pertain to them in their lives. I think there is basically a sort 
of self-oriented kind of thing that's going on now — my tape deck, my 
dope, my time, my experience — we're very experience-oriented and 

Now the radical community, an activist community, serves to polar- 
ize the community. When a community itself doesn't have an issue, 
nothing forces the people in that community into thinking one way or 
another. I don't know exactly what these acts of polarization will be. 
Our acts concerning ROTC at least caused a lot of letters in the Chron- 
icle, that kind of thing. You're going to get negative reactions; that's 
part of the ball game. It's a part of the polarization; it helps other peo- 
ple to define where they stand, in terms of the act and the negative 
reaction to it. Things like disrupting the ROTC review as we did helps, 
I hope, to polarize the situation in a sense, makes people come down 
on one side or the other. After the vigils we were holding outside the 
ROTC building, lying down and pouring human blood over our bod- 
ies, a series of letters in the Chronicle appeared where I think for one 
or two days almost every letter had to do with whether ROTC should 
be on campus or not. So it started a dialogue, at least, and people had 
to come down. Five hundred signatures (I think that was the number) 
on a petition to get AROD off might give you some idea of those who 
we were able to contact who feel that AROD and ROTC ought to be 
off campus. I talked with some cadets in the last three or four weeks; a 
lot of them don't want to stand up and defend ROTC. They're really 
questioning their own participation in that program. I had several ca- 
dets come up and say the kind of non-violent, almost liturgical disrup- 
tion of the review was meaningful for them. We reviewed the troops 
with human blood. We went down the line splashing blood at their 
feet and saying "the blood of the Vietnamese people, the blood of the 
Laotian people", and then reviewed the generals in the same manner 
and then lay down in the middle of the marching field and disrupted 
their marching activities. This was only an act of about two or three 
people. Another faction was trying to do a mockery type thing, and 
then joined us in the end. The administration was evidently going to 
do nothing, although we were in violation of Pickets and Protests. Now 
people in ROTC are demanding that Dean Griffith prosecute, so those 
processes have been started. 




(Tom Sykes is a graduate student and a teacher of political science) 
(^aqticleef. How much involvement do you think that students have 
in political matters at Duke? 

Sykes: I don't think there's very much involvement at all. And the type 
of involvement I think is fairly unique, at least with my experiences on 
a few campuses, in that it tends to be wholly religious. There are these 
sorts of groups, all of them religious-oriented in some way: your left 
wing religious in the YMCA, or your right wing religious groups like 
the Campus Crusade. 1 think it's awfully funny, given the supposed 
sophisticated social composition of the student body, that this is about 
all you have. 

^aqtideer: Well, why do you think that this is the case? 
Sykes: I think it's perfectly natural. You have to look at two aspects of 
the question. One is how much is Duke reflective of what goes on in 
every other university? And I suspect that the same thing is true of 
other universities as well; the old secular political groups, all the var- 
ious leftist coalitions — the Trotskyites and all — even the Democrats 
and Republicans — have all faded away. So what's happened here is 
probably not all that unique. 

But I think there is an added factor at Duke. Given the class compo- 
sition of most students here, I think there's everything in their back- 
ground to reinforce an apolitical attitude, or a reluctance to join any 
political group of any sort. And even for those that have some social 
conscience — which a good proportion of the students do — they may 
not act upon it. For them 1 suppose it's a little more tolerable to join 
one of these religious political movements, because that's not so damn- 
ing. But you don't have to make a real political commitment when you 
join the "Y", help the Latin Americans or whatever it is, or do some of 
these community action projects they have in Durham, which I think 
are fine things. Don't misinterpret me. 

^aqtideer. So you see it as a lack of willingness to be committed 

Sykes: Yeah, which 1 think is perfectly consistent with their back- 
ground. I really find the Duke student body so homogeneous in their 
social and attitudinal composition that they are boring to me. It would 


be very convenient to say that the university has purposefully rigged 
the admissions to get conservative students, to weed out potential radi- 
cals. To some extent that's true. They have found that people, for ex- 
ample, who come from center cities — regardless of their class back- 
ground just have a different view of the world than somebody who has 
been nurtured out in the suburbs all his life. There is some argument 
that the admissions committee or whatever it is has purposely not re- 
cruited people from center cities at Duke because these were found to 
be potential activists. Now that's a rumor. I wouldn't stake my reputa- 
tion on that. People are almost exclusively from small towns and sub- 
urbs; that's where Duke students come from. Now is that the only 
place they get applications from? Or do they purposely exclude others? 
I'm not sure. 

($aqticleer': Do you feel that the trend has been toward a more conser- 
vative student body? 

Sykes: I'm not sure about that. No, I think people are more private, if 
you want to call that conservative. People are more interested in their 
own private matters, defining everything in a very egoistic manner — 
and in that sense I don't think that's horribly different than the past. 
They may think they're doing something different, but I don't think 
they are at all. Their parents were probably just the same way when 
they were in College. 

Everyone likes apples. Remember the good ol' days where ap- 
ples were Sc apiece? Sc for some juicy bites into nature's sweet 
earth. Guess what? We still get them that cheap, the juiciest red 
delicious apple you've laid your eyes on. "We"? Yep, the Peoples 
Intergalatic Food Conspiracy No. 1, Inc. Unlimited, esq. 

In September, 30 people got together to buy fresh fruit and 
vegetables at cheap prices, to undercut the retailer so that they 
could save money, and to try to build an alternative to grocery 
store-supermarket. All volunteered their labor and started to buy 
together, co-operatively, so that they could get items 25-30% 
cheaper than retail. The co-op swelled to 100 buying units (300 
members), incorporated in November, and started selling natural 
food items in January. Its membership consists of working people 
(secretaries, janitors, hospital workers), students, professors, and 
a lutheran church which buys with us. Items that we sell are fruit, 
veggies, eggs, yogurt, and 20 natural food items. 

We run on one day, Thursday at the Baptist Student Center, 
but plenty of volunteer labor is needed before opening. On Tues- 
day your co-ordinator calls up our wholesaler, at the Raleigh 
Farmers Market to get crate size and prices for fruit and vegeta- 
bles. She divides crate price by crate size to get unit price and 
then mimeos the price for the items on a sheet. People can pick 
up the order forms after 3, take them home and fill them out and 
return them Wednesday to the office between 12 and 6 with the 
right amount of cash. People have signed up for the job slot and 
are there to take all cash and coallate all orders. Thursday, Glenn 
and Eric, our truckers go to Raleigh to buy the food, bring it back 
to distribute in the center. Later people who have volunteered, 
come in and bag all the orders. People take their time and some- 
one is always playing catch with an orange or eggplant. 

First, we were just a bunch of people wanting to get good food 

at cheap prices, not really caring about each other. And it showed up that we 
were not together, so some people were being used. Responsibility was 
being shifted to a core group of people who believed in the co-op but 
wanted to see it grow in various directions. One being community participa- 
tion. But getting people to participate was a problem especially in doing the 
volunteer work. First we had a sign up sheet. But only a few people would 
sign up for jobs, and it was a hassle since a few people were doing the jobs 
of many. Large houses would volunteer the same amount of labor as small 
houses, which was not fair. Also, group and block leaders all felt that too 
much responsibility was being placed on them. So after school was out, 
those people who stayed around for the summer got together for a meeting 
to discuss the problems and by unanimous vote of 80 people decided that 1) 
Each person, not household, would have to pay a $3 membership fee, 2) 
Responsibility was to fall back on each individual so that a minimum of 2 
hours every 2 months was required of each member, 3) A committee was set 
up to follow through on those stipulations — any member that did not have 
valid reason and did not take part could lose their membership and be 
thrown out of the co-op. 



It seemed a harsh thing to propose, to a group of people who had 
had Httle structure in their organization originally. Hopefully we can 
get together as a group of people doing a community thing by using 
this method. Personally, I think that people need to understand what 
we are trying to do in the fullest sense. 

We, the co-op, are a business. Not in the sense that businesses are 
now, depersonalized and profit-making as it relates to the consumer, 
but a new type of business. What we are is collective "user-control" in 
a structured form. Yet we employ standard business techniques such as 
"inventory control" or keeping records on our "cash flow". People 
hearing these words cringe, thinking "another capitalist", but I think 
what we are doing is using the tools of advanced capitalism not to 
make a profit but to save people money. And when seen in this light, 
people will not get caught up in the rhetoric of "cash flow" or "Revolu- 
tionary Workers' Money Saving System", but in the actual happenings 
of the business. Remember that we are dealing as an economic enter- 
prise within a system that was here long before us, so just to survive 
we must 1) Survive as a business. 2) Survive as a co-op. Many co-ops 
have fallen through because they tried to reverse the order, something 
that may have been on a higher humanitarian level, but too high an 
ideal for now. The way I have personally dealt with the problem of 
educating people is to explain to the person who volunteered for the 
job, the actual workings of what he/she is supposed to do. After mak- 
ing sure that the person understands what they are doing, then and 
only then do I name the function, i.e. inventory control. People's faces 
invariably light up, with usually some kind of sarcastic expression of 
how "big" we're getting. 

To remain on a personal level members must participate, or we are 
no different than a regular supermarket-grocery store. And to survive, 
as a business, we have to grow not only financially but in other direc- 
tions as well. How we grow will be the real test. 

A friend of mine stated it beautifully: "He who has never envied the 
vegetable has failed to fully understand the human drama." 



(Jeff Kurzweii worked for Terry Sanford's campaign, and is the only student 
member of the Board of Trustees.) 
Jeff Kurzweii: Her name's Niblet. 

Qaqticleer. Niblet? Come here, Niblet. Aw, just a little puppy. How little? 
Kurzweii: Ten weeks old. 
Qaqticleer. Oh, still small. 

Kurzweii: It's a toy spaniel, so that's almost full growth. She'll be about 8 
pounds when she's full grown. Won't ya, Niblet? Wontcha? Wontcha? 

(^kiiticleer: Watch the microphone. 
Kurzweii: I don't have to lean into that thing, right? 

Qaqticleef: { don't believe you do. You want me to check? (loud noise of feed- 
back) Apparently you don't have to lean into it. 
Kurzweii: Come here,_Niblet . . . come . . . don't go running off. 
Qaqtideer Fucking thing, 
Kurzweii: She's ten weeks old, ten weeks old. 
Qatiticleef: ... so you wanna start? 

Kurzweii: Your question was, why am I working for Sanford? 
($aqticleef: That's a good question to start with. 

Kurzweii: Well, I've been involved in political campaigns before, particularly 
Gene McCarthy's in '68, and I've always been looking for a candidate who can 
bridge progressive political thought with a dose of American political realism. 
(Qaqticleer. And you think he does that? 

Kurzweii: I think Sanford does that very gracefully ... I shouldn't have 
brought that dog in here. 
Qaqticleer. That's all right. 

Kurzweii: Why doncha just close the door, maybe she'll settle down. Come 
here, Niblet, come on. This guy doesn't have much time, girl, (sound of foot- 
steps) I had to bring her along because when I leave her in the apartment she 
goes berserk. 

Qaqticleer. That's OK. I like dogs. Why can't you say that about someone like 

Kurzweii: I think McGovern is a very talented man, I think he would be a good 
President. Oops, she's going to the bath . . . put somepaper — unnerneath- 
thatdog!! heehee this is a tremendous interview. 

Qaqticleer: Sit her on that thing right there. OK. If you want ... if you want, 
what you can do is sit her outside the window— there's not too many places she 
could go. 

Kurzweii: Umm ... I think I'll just watch her. Lemme hold her, that's the best 

Qaqticleer. OK, here, put her down on that. 

Kurzweii: Heehee . . . c'mon, siddown. I'll clean it up, if she makes a mess. I'll 
clean it up. But, uh, Sanford is an easy person to support, because in terms of 
political thought, he out McGoverns McGovern. If you know what I mean. 
Sanford is truly talking about reform of the federal government; the man is 
saying that he's going to eliminate % of the cabinet positions. This ts really a 
reform candidate. I think also, that Mr. McGovern, coming from a sparsely 
populated, largely ranching type of state, does not truly understand the prob- 
lem of urbanism. 

Qaqticleer-. Do you think Sanford does? 

Kurzweii: I think Sanford does, because there are a number of rotting, dying 
cities in the State of North Carolina. Also, I think Sanford genuinely has the 
image of your enlightened populist. He has the political sense of the classic 
southern populist, but he is a progressive — he is not myopic in his vision. He 
doesn't worry just about North Carolina, he worries about the world. 

Not only that, but he is bound to be able, if he is nominated, to beat Richard 
Nixon. And I think Richard Nixon is a beatable man, I think Richard Nixon has 
been a total . . . 

Qaqticleer What do you think of him as President? 

Kurzweii- He'll always be the former Vice-President to me. You know, when I 
hear him on TV, the proper introduction should be, "Ladies and gentlemen, the 
former Vice-president of the United States, President Richard Nixon." (laughter) 
L.think he was . . . born to be a former Vice-president. 
Qaqticleer: This dog is stealing the microphone. 

Kurzweii: Niblet, you are really a pain in the ass. Hold the dog. She's not really 
this bad, put her in the garbage can. Umm, she's really bad, I'm sorry. 
Qaqticleer: That's OK. 
Kurzweii: Dog, I'm gonna put you in the garbage can. 




(Terry Sanford is the President of Duke University, in Durham, North CaroHna He is a past 
governor of this fine state.) 

Terry Sanford: Well, in the first place, what are you going to do with this? 
(^aqticleef: What I'd Iii<e to do is, go through it, about 30-40 pages of typewritten tran- 
script, and put it together into an interview sort of . . . 
Sanford: In the (^aqticleefl 
^aqticleef. In the Qariticleer'. 
Santord: Number One. 

Qaqticleer. Number one. Dave, let's have some close shots of his face. 
Sanford: That seems to be a waste of at least one roll of film, if not two. 
^aqticleef: There seems to be a battle shaping up between some students and Dean Price, 
who apparently thinks that 24 hour open-opens are not . . . morally proper. 
Sanford: Well, the twenty-four hour open-opens create so many problems that I think we 
need to put it in the proper perspective. 
(^aTiticleef: Have you got many parents on your back? 

Sanford: The only reason that I haven't got many parents on my back is that I haven't done 
anything. I have an almost total opposition from the parents on relaxing the rules anymore 
in the dormitories for women. It goes far beyond — for lack of a better term — the moral 
conduct of the student. It goes to a sense of privacy, a sense of security. I think the parents 
have a point that when they send students here with the understanding that there are par- 
ticular kinds of rules that we should be reasonably careful about changing them. I am well 
aware of the fact that most students don't think they are sent here, but most parents do 
think they send them here. And I sit in the middle of both of these attitudes. 
(^aqticleef: I was talking to ... do you know Jeff Kurzweil? 
Santord: Oh yes. 

Qaqtideef: I was talking with him. We got a very nice interview from him. At that time I 
didn't even know he was one of the student trustees, or I would have asked him about it. 
Has that worked out fairly well? 

Sanford: Oh yes. Well, I think that it has worked out to the extent that students now are not 
complaining about the trustees being an evil force in the university, (the phone rings and 
he answers, talks about the primary he just lost to Wallace) . . . well, I ran off the track but 
I'm up out of the ditch now, walking back up along the right of way . . . anyhow, you 
know, the salvation of the world is sort of my challenge but unfortunately not my responsi- 
bility. I do the best I can . . . I'm back in my academic role today. It's a hell of a lot safer 
here. The brickbats are thrown more easily. . . . Great . . . Well, I'll look forward to seeing 
vou. Thank you. Bye. 

^aqticleef: You don't seem too subdued by the election results. 

Sanford: I knew what I was getting into, and I knew it was a terrible personal gamble, but 
beyond that I didn't have anything to lose — once the University community sorta ap- 
proved it, from the Trustees on. So I took the gamble. I knew — I read the polls. I knew 
you had to be mean on the race issue and the busing issue. I knew I wasn't willing to attack 
Wallace as being a racist — I would come out feeling slimy myself. So we ran it the way it 
ought to have been run . . . and it's over. I have no regrets. I'd be up there on the "Today 
Show" right now, and back conferring with people in Washington as a red hot political 
product, today, if I had topped him. But I'm just as well off and maybe better off. I am not 
consumed personally with the idea of being President, so I can be totally relaxed about it. 
($aqticleer. You seem pretty relaxed as president of the university, too. That's good to 
see. The impression I got from Dr. Knight (the previous president — ed. note) was that he 
was not relaxed. 

Sanford. Well, Mr. Huestis (a trustee — ed. note) said that that was either because I was 
very relaxed, or I didn't understand the situation. 
Qaqticlcer Which did Mr. Huestis think it was? 

Sanford: There is no reason for me to have any distrust of any element of this whole univer- 
sity community, or to he apprehensive about 'em or nervous about 'em or uptight. I think 
it's one of the great institutions of the country, and I'm delighted to have a part in it; and 
every element of it is in good shape. 














~z-. — I 








I ' 1 








The origins of Duke University extend back far beyond J. B. Duke's 
indenture. Old Trinity College, or even ancient Union Institute. We 
owe our entire intellectual heritage to the scholars of the middle ages 
who founded the first universities. In doing so they established arche- 
types that continue to be part of our experience. 

In the original universities all matters were decided within a frame- 
work of constitutional democracy. In the University of Paris during the 
twelfth and thirteenth centuries the faculty elected representatives, who 
elected the Rector. They also had final say over policy decisions. At the 
University of Bologna, also during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, 
the students selected consiliari from their own groups (determined by 
geographic distribution) who then elected a Rector and voted on all 
non-academic affairs. The faculty controlled the curriculum. 

As the centuries progressed, the communities of scholars began to 
pass the administration of University affairs off to an ever-proliferating 
number of dean and officers, provosts, chancellors, rectors, regents et 
alia. In the political world a similar thing was happening. The aristo- 
crats of the feudal period had a great deal of autonomy over their own 
affairs. However, as monarchies began to assert themselves as centraliz- 
ing power forces, the loose feudal hierarchy became solidified. The 
many-layered and overlapping chains of responsibility of late feudalism 
(we may use the vocabulary of the German system) are similar to the 
system that developed in the universities. The chief officer of the 
university became tantamount to the monarch, his vice-presidents and 
provost equivalent to the princes of the church; while the vice-provosts 
may be seen as lay princes, the middle level deans as barons, and the 
"Lower" deans on the chart as free knights — being able to change jur- 
isdictions and allegiances at the drop of a contract. 

The political system of monarchy faded and passed to various sys- 
tems of democracy (parliaments, Soviets, congresses, etc.). At the same 
time, though, the organization of the university remained unchanged. 
For the most part it remains so today. Some European and a few 
American universities have returned to the original manner of governing 
the community of scholars: participatory democracy. Duke is not one 
of them. In fact, the many lemellae of "officials," all subordinate to 
their immediate superiors, still leads inevitably to the Monarch. Wel- 
come to the Eighteenth Century. 



On the following few pages you can 

see what some professors and assorted 

other University types look like . . . 

Bear in mind that none of these people 

appear on the administrative chart you Just passed. 

Neither do you— 

which is one thing, at least you and they 

have in common. Maybe we should have 

drawn in a ''serf"' box for faculty and 

students, but it Just didn 't seem to fit. 

Bureaucratically, that is. 

Dr. W. T. Laprade, Professor Emeritus of History 





Dean Alan Jenks 

Stephen Vogel, Zoology 

Dean Hugh Hall Dr. Buettner-janusch, Anthropology 



Samuel Cook, Political Science 



Dr. P. N. Marines, 
Computer Science 

Left, Everett Weatherspoon, 

Financial Aid, ret. 
Right, Thomas L Perkins, 



Ainslee T. Embree, History 












■ t 

. f IJ 


^ •^^ T: 





Rostilav Hlopoff, Restorer 

Mary Lee Parker & Reynolds Price, 
Macon, N.C., December, 1971. 



(Dr. Cordle is Professor of French.) 
(^aJiticleef: You've been here a long time. 

Dr. Cordle: Yes, I have indeed. I've been here 22 years. I've seen a 
good many generations of students. 

(^aqticleef: What's kept you here for so long? Why have you decided 
to stay? 

Cordle: Well, mainly, I suppose because I could. And certainly because 
nowhere else attracted me more. It's been a good atmosphere for me, 
intellectually. Not that I found that much stimulus in the activity of the 
university as a whole, but it was conducive to my own reflections, 
broodings. ... If anything, there's too much likeness of mind in this 
community now. And it has nothing to do with the regional origin, but 
rather the class of origin of our faculty and student body. The student, 
necessarily, is going to be drawn from a fairly well-to-do class because 
of the fee structure here. TTie faculty — I suppose any faculty tends to 
become more and more like itself through the process of selection, re- 
cruitment. People tend to prefer to recruit people like themselves rather 
than someone who will offer a different outlook, different objectives, 
and may become an abrasive presence. 

Qariticleer' Certainly the results of the current, or the everlasting situ- 
ation aren't really what's desired. If you think of the old cliche of a 
marketplace of ideas, all the ideas are coming from the same market. 
Cordle: Exactly. The ideas tend to be self-serving, and they tend to be 
supportive of the in group. 

(^aqticleef: I remember you mentioned that the only time you at- 
tended commencement was to picket. 

Cordle: That is true. I have an objection to wearing academic garments. 
Up to this point, to my knowledge, the faculty has not been excused 
from wearing academic garments to commencement if the faculty is to 
be seated in the faculty section. Now one can always go as a spectator, 
but I feel, on the one hand, I have a right to sit in the faculty section, 
and on the other hand I have a resistance to wearing academic gar- 
ments, so I have not been to commencement. 
(^aqticleer: Well, what were you picketing that time? 

Cordle: Well, that was in the spring of 1968, and we were trying to 
move the trustees to accept the principle of collective bargaining in the 
non-academic work force. 

Qaqticleef: There is a tendency on the part of a lot of the academy to 
regard our problems a little bit naively and have a kind of inarticulate 
outrage that doesn't lead anywhere. 

Cordle: Well, 1 expect I would have to accept a considerable share of 
guilt in that. Yes, I've been ... I said I was a radical, but I've very 
much been a parlor radical. 
(^aqticleef: But you've acted? 
Cordle: In a very small way. In a very limited way. 
QTaqjticleer: You were saying earlier that you thought, at least to some 
extent, that your involvement in the affairs of Duke University was a 
process of becoming able to be indifferent. 

Cordle: Yes, I've tended to cultivate a larger and larger share of 
indifference toward the questions that tend to agitate us. I think that, 
again, this is a matter of age, and of fatigue. Some things that I've been 
involved in just seemed to go on too long for me to bear up very well 
under them. 1 think significantly of the issue of collective bargaining in 
the work force of Duke University. This seemed to me an inordinately 
long struggle for something that was such a clear issue. Therefore yes, 
fatigue, loss of patience, what-not . . . these have sort of driven me to 
the indifference that 1 mentioned. I think I could be wakened out of it, 

^aqticleer: But in the professional context, it's almost a means of sur- 

Cordle: If you have to cultivate indifference in order to survive profes- 
sionally, I'm not sure how good it is to survive professionally. 
Qaqticleer: I wasn't really thinking of surviving professionally, be- 
cause you have survived professionally, but more a means of your own 
personal survival. 

Cordle: To cultivate my own little inner, spiritual garden? I'm very dis- 
trustful of those. This has too long been one of my temptations, in 
other words. That inner garden of delights. 
(^aqticleer: The seedy solipsist? 
Cordle: That's the risk. 



(Dr. Adams is Professor of English.) 

^aqtichef: Have you been doing any thinl<ing about what a critic's 
role in society is? Why do we have people like yourself? What are you 
doing that the society has decided to make a slot for you to fit into? 
R. W. Adams: The more I think about it objectively, I suppose I'm 
nothing more than an ornament for society; I'm really not necessary 
to the physical well-being of society. The spiritual well-being — well, 
that's a different thing. And it would be very difficult to make a pre- 
cise statement about my value to society. As I've said before, I think 
it's extremely valuable in the development of anybody's mind to know 
how people have thought, or to know how other people have coped 
with the same problems that man in the 20th century has to cope with 
— again this idea of universality. A lot of the problems that Chaucer 
had to face, that Milton had to face, and Shakespeare, and Donne, 
and Vergil had to face, are not really all that different than the prob- 
lems that the average Duke student is going to have to face. 

The audience has changed, so we do a different kind of reading. For 
the really great, great literature, after you have peeled away time dif- 
ferences, after you have peeled away the contemporaneity, there still 
will be that kernel there, which should be handed down through the 
years. One of the reasons that ! am sort of against the isolation that 
the black culture is going through now — of course in varying degrees 
it tends to be true that our experience is different, ours is unlike any- 
body else's. Well, on the surface perhaps it is unlike . . . after you get 
beyond the surface there's a good deal of similarity. 
QTaqticIeef: Is there any pressure on you by the black students to be 
more relevant than you perhaps are? 

Adams: No, but it was one of the things that I had to think about a 
good deal before I came here . . . And my conclusion was, 1 am a 
professor of medieval literature and that's what I'll do. So that's pretty 
much what I've done. There are lots of people around who are more 
trained in black literature than I am. My approach to literature is not 
. . . Well, as we have been discussing here, my approach to literature 
tends to emphasize similarities rather than differences, so that I just 
get up and teach what I know. 

l^aqtideer-. Have you found any instances of subtle racism here? 
Adams: No ... I have been rather pleasantly surprised. The first thing 
I worried about, of course, was how I would be received by students. 
And, here again, my mask as Professor of English was the attitude that 
I took. "I'm simply telling you what I know about literature." If there 
was any, those people dropped out of the classes after the first day. 
It was never of any significance after that. As far as the university, 
as the faculty and staff are concerned, I haven't detected any. One is 
always amused more than anything else when people seem to smile 

a little too much, when people seem a little bit too gracious. One 
wonders what's being covered up, what's being compensated for, but 
even that is a much more pleasant way to live, a very civil way to live . . . 
(a pause in the conversation while pictures are taken). 
0aqtideer: I really like taking pictures. 

Adams: 1 here's nothing in the world that I think I dislike more, than 
having my picture taken. 

(^aqticleer: Than having your picture taken? (click) Ha, ha. It will look 
very funny in the yearbook to see these words alongside the pictures. 
Adams: Hahahahahahahaha. Exactly. Oh well, (click) 
Qaqticlecr. Hahaha . . . Hyukhuh. (Click) (Click) 
Is there anything more you would like to talk about? 
Adams: It's really a very rewarding, very challenging and interesting 
study. Again, you have to have a certain personality makeup to want 
to do that sort of thing. There are a lot of people who don't. There is 
nothing the matter with them, they just have other interests. There 
are people who are more practically oriented — people who want 
tangible results from what they do, people who want to put in X amount 
of effort and get out X amount of 
product. People like my father, 
who is very talented with his 
hands, who can build all sorts of 
very nice cabinetwork and who 
can fix the sink when it gets broke 
and can put the windowpane in, 
and who now, though he objected 
rather more strenuously to begin 
with, simply looks askance at my 
career, still is inclined to wonder 
what I am doing, what do I have 
to show for my efforts. You see, 
I can't hand him a finished piece 
of work, I can't say that I have 
worked for four hours and here 
it is. For that kind of person, the 
study of literature is unrewarding, 
even wasteful. But I can't live 
without them, because I have to 
have a house to live in, clothes 
to put on; I have to have some- 
place to plug in my electric tooth- 
brush. So they give me the time, 
the environment, for thinking 
about literature. 



When leaving Perkins Library, students and faculty members are 
obliged to stop briefly for a check that ensures books have been prop- 
erly discharged. One is confronted politely by Angus McUougall, a 
soft-spoken gentleman with an accent, who performs his necessary task 
almost apologetically, and then thanks the borrower and wishes him a 
good day. Mr. McDougall is one of those individuals on the periphery 
of the Duke academic life who receive little publicity, yet whose minds 
and talents are as full an expression of University as any professor's. 
In brief, Mr. McDouglass is an artist, a writer of light verse, and a very 
fine sculptor. 

Angus McDougall's connection with Duke dates back to 1927, when 
his father, Professor William McDougall (who had succeeded William 
James as professor of psychology at Harvard) came to Durham to estab- 
lish Duke's psychology department. Angus was born at Oxford, educated 
at Brown and Nichols preparatory school, and was groomed for Harvard 
University. His interests, however, were directed more toward the arts 
then academics, and as a result he journeyed to Florence in his twenty- 
first year to study sculpture under Andreotti at the Royal Institute of 
Art. He then travelled to England for architectural studies and sculpture 
with Henry Moore, and three years as apprentice to Eric Gill in stone 
carving. Angus worked in London as a sculptor in his own studio for 
several years and then returned to the United States in 1938 as a de- 
signer for Steuben Glass in New York City. He later helped to edit 
Tomorrow Magazine and assisted in publication for Creative Age Press. 

During World War II Angus hitched out to New Mexico to become 
director of recreation for the city of Taos, and he became friends with 
Frieda Lawrence, wife of D. H. Lawrence. In 1946 he returned to Durham 
to teach sculpture and to do busts of individuals on a commission 
basis. Four years ago he retired from sculpting and took a position as 
assistant librarian with the Duke Library. 

For several years Angus has lived in a modest white cottage one 
block from East Campus. His well-groomed garden, with its cherry tree 
in blossom, many rose bushes and cheerful patches of pansies, makes 
the house stick out in his neighborhood, like the well thumb of a sore 
hand. The inside of his home is equally impressive, with walls of a 
subdued green decorated by old maps, paintings, and miniatures, and 
rows of books of every description. Several of Angus' sculptures in the 

living room reveal the excellence that this quiet gentleman has achieved 
in his art. 

During an interview on a Sunday afternoon in early May, Angus, 
preferring to shift the conversation from his own achievements, told 
me of his grandfather from Scotland — an inventor and the founder of 
a large chemical works — and of his father — author of twenty-three 
volumes of psychology, the founder of the Duke psychology depart- 
ment, and one of the major figures in his field. In discussing art, Angus 
classified himself as conservative but openminded. He has little interest 
in so-called "junk" sculpture, because he feels that it has little to com- 
municate, and he prefers more realistic expression and lifelike repre- 
sentations of nature. Angus does, however, think highly of the abstract 
work of Constantin Brancusi, Alexander Calder, and Henry Moore. 
Because he enjoys working with people as models, (he has specialized 
in busts), and forming a special relationship with the sitter, he laments 
the fact that too often people don't decide to commission a bust of 
someone until after the person's death, making his work less direct. 

Some of the subjects of busts include Dr. William Blackburn, retired 
professor of English, Dr. J. B. Rhine of the Institute for Research into 
the Nature of Man, Ina Forbus, author of children's books, Frederick 
Douglass, and Helen Keller. A relief portrait of his father adorns a wall 
in the psychology reading room at Duke, and Professor Carl Zener is 
remembered by a sculped head in Zener Auditorium in the Psychology 

In recent years the demand for bronze heads declined as fashions 
changed and costs increased. Many feel that a thousand dollars for a 
bust is too expensive, but few realize what a large percentage of the fee 
is taken by the necessities of production and what a small amount 
finally reaches the artist. As a result, Angus has closed his studio and 
concentrates on reading, writing, and tending his garden, in addition to 
his duties at the library. 

Preferring to be near a university community with its wide range of 
interests, Angus likes Duke's proximity to a city the size of Durham. 
"Between town and gown," he says, "I think we have a good thing 
going. Chapel Hill is too ivory tower. The village revolves around the 
university, and hence the proper sense of proportion is lost." 

— Dave Williamson 



Reprinted below is one of Angus McDougall's poems: 

Enviable Jellyfish 
To educate 

a vertebrate 
and teach it how 

to cerebrate 
one must agitate, 

inculcate, and 


Oh to be invertebrate: 
Navigate and undulate 

around a cape, 
then celebrate 

the limpid state, 
and suddenly 




ain't shit! Dig it, broi 

tute. The d 
lithic *-=-- 
level . . . Di 

, pinochle . . . Looking objectively, I would guess 1 
nind and the place is conductive to study, 
■nity into our '- 



nply adore Duke. It's di 

. . / here . . . Man, Duke's a jive pla 
;ore most anywhere you go. f mean if you git wid de right peop/~ ''- 

n git high off some good stuff and git down wid some good stuff, well den < 
coof, brother . . . 








^"^ TB^ -=-i^?iPȣ-*^ 

Qaiiticleer: I wanted to ask you about the hair, about the braiding. 
Lynn: It's a West African art. Most women in East Africa don't do it 
because they cut all their hair off. Women in West Africa wear their 
hair longer, and they do braid in all kinds of intricate styles. We call it 
corn-rowing over here, because of the straight rows — I don't know 
what they call it in Africa. The important thing about doing the hair 
style is to make sure that the style is symmetrical: whatever hair-do 
you have it's got to be symmetrical all the way around, even rolls and 
very straight parts. That's a necessity. Mine isn't perfect — This is a 
mediocre style. It should be completely straight. See how I have about 
eight rows in my head now? Often you use very small sections of hair 
so that, for instance, if I wanted to do mine in another style, I might be 
able to do it with about thirty, which would make very, very tiny 
braids. You braid the hair by weaving in a few strands at a time until 
you get a rope-like braid that's stuck close to the head. 

There's another braided style. It's not really corn-rowing but it's also 
a West African art and a style that black women used to use a long 
time ago, like when my grandmother was a child, during slavery. Peo- 
ple don't do it much anymore because it's not considered cultured, I 
guess. You take silk-like thread and you bring your hair in sections 
however you want to do, whatever style, and you wrap the hair with 
the thread and make the hair very stiff, like if you have a braid. The 
way this hair-do is, these braids all stay straight up. If I had wrapped 
my hair, which I started to do, instead of braiding it, it would stand up 
from my head just like a comb. That's the way you see it in Africa a 
lot today. In fact, I learned to do it from an African student that's here 
now. And my mother just says she absolutely refuses to do my hair 
like that. She'd corn-row it but wouldn't go any farther than that. 
(^aTiticleef: How come your mother wouldn't do it any farther? 
Lynn: It's all a part of the indoctrination of white culture. When my 
mother was a child, women would do that to their daughters' hair if it 
was very short, because you can wrap the hair and it grows if it's 
wrapped up. You don't have to comb it as often. And so it was a kind 
of a stigma to have to go to school with your hair wrapped, and I imag- 
ine the kids made fun of you. She accepts the corn-rowing for me. 
She's not crazy about it, but she will do my hair like that. She looks at 
it kind of like a fad, but she just absolutely refuses to wrap my hair. 
And I think that's basically the reason: because it is quite foreign and 
quite strange. And also it's considered "country." A lot of women in 
the deep south, Mississippi and places like that, still do their hair like 
that, and you're considered ignorant and very "country" if you wear 
your hair that way. 

($aqticleer: Do you get much reaction here at Duke when you wear 
your hair like that? 

Lynn: No, other than: "How did you get your hair like that? It's really 
different-looking, really odd-looking." I've had people, especially when 
I have it done in the circular style, stop me on the sidewalk and ask me 
how did I get my hair like that, what did I do to my hair. But I think 
one reason people don't react to it negatively is because over here we 
tend to do it more stylishly. In Africa, the women do really 
weird-looking hair styles that I probably wouldn't wear here, because 
they will braid their hair and maybe have something, two things stick- 
ing out on the side, you know, or in the middle, or right out of the top. 
Things that really look weird. 








My blue-eyed "friends" would wonder why I set to write of racism. For 
surely I've not been a victim of racism here at Duke? Was Duke not receptive 
to me? 1 lived, ate and slept with them, and they never turned me away — now 
I call them racists. Why? Is it because it is fashionable nowadays to be 
Black-and-angry? No, I am not angry, and neither am I after a fashion. The 
angry Black is not the product of a popular movement or consensus. The quest 
for self-realization, self-definition, and self-respect is not a fashion; it is a most 
intensely "human" requisite. The anguish is what spurs the anger; when man is 
deprived of his most basic human needs, the frustration drives him toward at- 
tempted fulfillment. That is, he must seek his manhood, because his essence as a 
human being has been veiled by his forced existence at a lesser status. He has 
had no self-respect because he has not had the power of self definition, his es- 
sence being defined by his "blue-eyed 'friends'." And he, all too often, fell 
into the trap of accepting the white definition as the definition. 1 fell into that 

Part of the reason for my own naivete, perhaps, was that 1 had just come 
from the unaware atmosphere of balanced integration (That is, a temporary bal- 
ance, because the community was in transition — the school, like the commu- 
nity, is all Black now.), but most of the naviete was simply my own. I stepped 
into the whiteness of Duke unseasoned in the subtleties of racism and thinking 

that / could work within the system, when I didn't even know what "the sys- 
tem" was. Hardly did I understand the cautious aloofness of my Black brothers 
and sisters who clustered diminutively about "the table" and seemed either 
reluctant to mix, or as if they didn't know how. Ironically, to me, I found the 
"racists" to be more receptive, if you will, then the "brothers". But what I did 
not see was that my catering to these "others" was alienating me from my own 
people, hence from my own self, my identity. They accepted me because I was 
"not like those other negroes". I had incorporated the white value systems, so 
of course it didn't matter what color a person's skin was — as long as his mind 
was white. 

Of course I was not alone in this delusion. Interjected as we were into the 
white man's society, most, if not all, of us had to some extent incorporated 
those values, though some had, to various extents, managed to partially liberate 
their minds from those white bindings. Thus, we were a whole spectrum, some 
reaching after white idols, some standing still, some growing gradually toward 
selfhood and the ultimate goal of us all. Blackness. 

But there is a point beyond which the acceptance will not go. Individually, 
the liberals of the society might be willing to accept us as individuals. But the 
system, the white racist politico-economic structure of this society, is not will- 
ing to accept us as a people. It would rather splinter us as a group and swallow 
us piecemeal into the anonymity of the conglomerate masses. All who refuse to 
be thus digested are relegated to the status of excrement and ground into the 
dust. And we failed to fit neatly into either class; we were not of one accord, 
neither were we totally disjunct. 

Ironically, it was the institution itself that bound us one to all. Granted, the 
group had begun to knit — around a common cause, a cultural and ideological 
event; but it was the common anguish of having been depersonalized by a sys- 
tem that, as a matter of course, treats its own people as objects, and treats 
Black people as non-entities. When we arose in protest, our pleas either were 
unheard or unheeded. The institution drove us together; it denied us identity 
beyond the bounds of our own group, and when the group as a whole stood up 
to demand recognition, it shattered the coalescence and granted up, in lieu of 
recognition, more anguish, deeper bitterness, and an even greater distrust for 
our asserted overlords. Frustrated, dejected, beaten by the system, and strug- 
gling to maintain our academic existence even as probationary students, we re- 
treated to a struggle for survival, knowing that although the institution had 
managed to hold its place during what was for us a crisis, it had at the same 
time begun to forge a new kind of Black brother at Duke, a new kind of Black 
sister, tempered now in the subtleties as well as the blatancies of racism, with 
one eye on the foe and the other eye on the future. For it is the future we look 
to as nation-builders. 

Those of us who now leave will be the last to recall those crisis days now 
over three years past. But for each new Black face, Duke has a travail. Its forges 
go on tempering Black minds; Black bodies go on weathering the struggle; and 
somehow, throughout it all. Black faces go on laughing in the face of adversity, 
even though it is a very trying, very painful trek. Those of us who weather it, 
have yet another tool as nation-builders. May we use it well. 

— Harve Linder 





To list the places where one finds the members of the Duke Outing 
Club enjoying themselves is to understand what makes the club dis- 
tinctive and heightens one's respect for those who would point to 
man's dubious sanity. For example, one's first acquaintance with the 
club is likely to come on Student Activities Night. At that time, a pair 
of precariously thin looking ropes curl over the top of one of the 
Union towers and snake down the sides to the ground. After a few 
minutes, having attached themselves to the ropes using a shng and 
Caribiners, two members blithely slither off the roof and walk back- 
ward, parallel to the ground, down the tower walls. Whereas one finds 
oneself impressed viewing the spectacle from the ground, for a begin- 
ner contemplating it from five stories up it is likely to appear as quite 
possibly one's final act in the world. 

This is, of course, a somewhat distorted portrayal of the hazards and 
activities involved in becoming a member. Having paid the two dollar 
membership fee one has at one's disposal (given a degree of experi- 
ence) assorted equipment for caving, rafting, climbing, repelling, and 

One also has access, as often as twice a week, to the instruction and 
experience which accounts for the generally accident-free record of the 
Outing Club. Learning the skills of rafting, caving, or rock climbing 
comes rather quickly and naturally with practice. Those who are not 
captivated by the sheer personal challenges of increasingly complicated 
and adventuresome feats usually find themselves drawn into participa- 
tion merely as an excuse to visit the wild and beautiful environs so 
typical of the Outing Club experience. 

Somewhere, a maze of towns and winding roads away, exists a few 
of the places that one may escape to with the Outing Club. One such 
area. Outing Club members joke about, as being near a town located 
between two larger towns which are themselves not significant enough 
to find on most road maps. Hidden there among the Virginia hills are 
narrow roads without litter, streams stocked with fish, a clear boulder- 

strewn river with a campground amidst the trees on its banks. The 
people there sell cider from a barrel and discuss the price of coal or 
hogs and will squaredance with even the most inexperienced stranger. 
The area is in fact so quaintly attractive that one former Outing Club 
member chose to live there and teach in the school. 

Hidden in the hills themselves are a network of unimaginably huge 
and varied caves, access to which seems almost always through a se- 
cluded windy squeeze. Crawling down into the earth through such a 
breathing hole is every bit the sensation of flushing oneself down a 
commode — potentially the claustrophobic's nightmare. Contrast this 
with the thought of straddling a pit whose depths completely absorb a 
carbide lamp's beam of light and one can understand how such activity 
might draw one's thoughts completely away from scholastic worries 
and focus them on the immediate. Not surprisingly, these dark rooms 
deep in the bowels of the earth offer to those who seek it a womb-like 
peace and security. For those who find the caves threatening, each exit 



in inching muddy out into the fresh air and natural Hght is 
like coming home to a world one never appreciated more. 
This is not to say that the Outing Club's activities are re- 
stricted to either secluded places or ones dangerous to reach. 
Areas frequently visited include Linville Gorge, Blowing Rock, 
and the Appalachian trail. Trips to the Florida Keys entail- 
ing a variety of aquatic activities are scheduled once and 
sometimes twice a year. Through the Outing Club, wild- 
life lovers have access to various private islands and pre- 
serves along the East coast, usually including a visit to 
Shackleford Island during Joe College Weekend. Similarly, 
the range of Outing Club activities is by no means limited 
to those for the members' benefit alone. Having an interest 
in areas both presently and potentially offering themselves 
as escapes, the Outing Club on occasion finds itself in al- 
liance or shares members with such groups as Ecos in an ef- 
fort to preserve the obscurity or natural environment of an 
area threatened by roads or industry. 

Bob Beard 


1 12 




1 14 


On March 25 we went into Burns Chestnut Ridge 
Cave for a final attempt to blast through to the 
undiscovered trunk channel of the Sinkino Creek 
cave system. Six hours and sixty sticks of dyna- 
mite later, we tired turds emerged from the bowels 
of B.C.R. 




"After a long day on my bicycle, I feel 
refreshed, cleansed, purified. I feel that 
I have established contact with my 
environment and that I am at peace. 
On days like that, 1 am permeated 
with a profound gratitude for 
my bicycle." 

Paul de Vivie 

Patron Saint of cycling 


"Cycling gives you an immediate goal. You 
see a hill. You start to pant. You go into a 
sweat. You wipe your brow. You blow your 
nose. You reach the top. . . . It is the cadence 
of the feet. It clears the cobwebs. It opens the 
eyes. It changes your perception. . . . You 
are not trying to defeat anyone. Cycling is 
complete mental relaxation." 


1 18 


^ "I managed to give free rein to my mind and 

I mouth; I was no longer aware of any truth or 

falsehood, and usefulness or harmfulness, that 
could concern myself or others. . . Outside and 
inside were one, and my eyes were like my 
ears, my ears like my nose, my nose like my 
mouth — all my senses were alike. ... I no 
longer felt that my body leaned against some- 
thing nor that my feet touched the ground, 
but let myself be borne east and west by the 
wind, like a leaf or dry wood shaving; and 
finally I could no longer tell whether I was 
carrying the wind along or whether the wind 
was carrying me." 
—Chinese art of wind-riding 
Lieh Tzu chapter 2 — 3rd century A.D. 

Bewildered amidst exhaust fumes and hope- 
lessly offensive asphalt-plastic-concrete sprawl: 
the vroom-screech of young boys in wide-tired 
fireburners; frightened and angered yet reprov- 
ing stares from 20-mile-an-hour grandmothers 
. . . but soon . . . gliding swiftly and silently 
down winding country roads: the rush of for- 
ests and fields and farmhouses; conquering 
canine coefficients of adversity; the gentle 
rustle of the wind in the trees . . . the path to 
pure experience— not thinking that you know 
but knowing that you know: the easy oneness 
of body and bike and road, all Brewster 
McCIoud- Captain America fantasies fulfilled— 
the yes-ecstasy of cycling. 

1 19 





J. Cha'mwheel 



2. Pedal 


Hub (high-flange type) 

3. Chain 



4. Rear derailleur 



5. Front derailleur 



6. Caliper brake 


Fork crown 

7. Brake lever 



8. Brake cable 


Wheel dropout 

9. Handlebars 


Seat cluster lug 

10. Handlebar sfem 


Seat stay 

n. Seat (saddle) 


Seat tube 

12. Seat post 


Steering head 

13. Quick-release skewer (for instant wheel 


Tension roller, rear derailleur 



Top tube 

14. Bottom bracket 


Fender brace 

15. Gear-shift lever for rear derailleur 


Down tube 

16. Freewheel gear 



Cotterless crank 

17. Rim 


Rear drop out 

18. Spoke 


Headset (top and bottom) 



Ideally the relationship between a cyclist and his machine should be 
a sacred one; at the other extreme is the occasional cyclist who should 
at least treat his bike as if it were an old friend. Paul de Vivie 
("Velocio") probably came closest to attaining the ideal. After riding 
one of the first "high wheels" in the 1880 's, he forsook a prosperous 
silk business and opened up one of the early bicycle shops where he 
attempted to solve formidable problems of basic design. 

From these attempts came the derailleur, which revolutionized cy- 
cling. Derailleurs, commonly referred to as shifters, or simply changers, 
enabled cyclists to cover any terrain, no matter how rugged. One had 
but to find the right gear, and any hill, no matter how steep, was nego- 

Velocio was very much into extended touring. "Sometimes alone, 
sometimes with a small group of friends, he would ride through the 
night, through the second day, through the second night, and into the 
third day without more than an occasional rest to eat or change 
clothes." At the age of 47 he toured the high passes of Switzerland and 
Italy, doing 400 miles, with a total climb of 18,000 feet, in 48 hours. 
Even his death attested to his love of cycling. In 1930, at the age of 77 , 
as Velocio was forced to push his bicycle through heavy traffic, he was 
struck and fatally injured. He died clutching his machine. 

Unfortunately, few cyclists demonstrate such a devotion to cycling. 
Therefore, a few brief remarks will be made about riding and caring 

for ten-speeds, delicate pieces of equipment which require proper 

In learning to ride, the first step is to make sure that your saddle is 
properly adjusted. While seated you should be able to just reach the 
pedal at its lowest position with your heel (leg fully extended). Han- 
dle-bars should be approximately level with the saddle. As for actual 
riding techniques, the first thing is to pedal only with the ball of your 
foot, not with the instep or heel. Toe clips are helpful in this respect. 
By pedaling correctly you utilize your muscles most effectively. "Ca- 
dence" is also crucial to good cycling form — pedaling at a relatively 
constant rate and changing gears in order to keep this rhythm. Usual 
cadences range from 65 to 85 revolutions per minute. 

Changing gears is a basic skill which a surprisingly large number of 
people do not master. It is difficult to explain on paper; it is simply 
something that must be learned by the individual. Shifting gears with a 
derailleur is always by feel alone — it should be as noiseless and 
smooth as possible. Never shift gears unless you are pedaling; the 
cranks must be moving when you shift. With time and effort it will 
come as easily to you as chanting or yelling at sports events or what- 
ever you do "naturally". 

Regarding bike care, all moving parts should be kept clean and oiled 
with light machine oil. Ten-speeds require perpetual minor adjust- 
ments. Become familiar with your machine and make these adjust- 
ments yourself. Tires should be correctly inflated; too much, and pow!, 
too little and you work twice as hard. Usual pressure is 65-75 lbs. for 
17 X \y^ inch tires. Remember that on hot days your tires will be at the 
mercy of expanding hot air. For a complete treatment of all kinds of 
bike care problems, there are many good publications on the market in 
which it is worthwhile to invest a few dollars. 

- R. Poole 

ll // 

.rl!f .r 

ti ^k% 


Notebook from Durham: 

My First Day at Duke, 1956 
Stephen R. Dunn '72 

I was six and too young to shave but that's what I did my first day at 
Duke. We were in a room that smelled Hke old wood and mop water, 
then in a brighter room with yellow walls and a carpet that made my 
knees sigh "finally." I offered the lady with sharp glasses my magnolia 
pod (I had wanted a blossom but he said that was a thirty dollar fine.) 
It wasn't taken, but instead a hand led me to a cabinet and opened it, 
and that is where the shaver was — electric if I wound it up, which I 
did and enjoyed doing for some time. But it was harmless, everything 
was harmless except the magnolia blossoms (which were magnificent 
and strange — frozen white fire) and the grass which was beautiful, a 
sea, deep and cool — cool as this lady that took them into another 
room where they laughed while I shaved with the earnest toy that 
wouldn't have made a path in the fuzz of a peach. 

The cabinet was finally closed and we were in the doorway and I 
could smell that mop water as if we were stepping into a dank hole. 
The lady shook my hand and I said, "I guess now I'm an alumnate 
too." We were leaving and there was a finger pointed at me but the 
man was similing so I asked what he wanted. He said it wasn't he that 
wanted me but the airforce and I asked him was he in the airforce in 
college and he said yes. That made things a little less harmless and I 
was on the lookout for one that wasn't, then finally spotted him, a man 
with a scratchy beard and in clothes that were the furthest thing from 
any uniform. I had him, so 1 said, "Why isn't he airforce?" 

"Because he left his shaver at home," he said. 

I thought he had me, but then she spoke up as if she had just slid to 
my side. She said, "Why didn't you leave yours?" and that had him 
and there wasn't anymore talk about shavers or the airforce. Not even 
a shout when I went off into the grass which I might have dived into 
and disappeared, not a word even when I finally touched a blossom 
and it was frozen fire, cold wax and a smell that filled my stomach to 
my eyes and make my legs smaller. Not a word till I came back to his 
hand and he said without anger or scolding but just tired, his eyes 
above me, crushing me, "Now that blossom will be dead by tomor- 
The Wilkerson Mansion 

The house was two stories tall and Papa built it on the highest of the 
three hills just west of what was then, 1892, Durham's city limits. Papa 
was my great-grandfather, a Wilkerson, and the road that led to the 
mansion is now named for him. He built it — so my Grandmother tells 
me now — with virgin pine that was cut from the forest bordering 
highway 751. Against all advice, he dug for water on that hill and 
found only thirty feet deep the best water in the county. The house, 
the well, the Wilkerson family (my Grandmother had eight brothers 
and sisters) became part of my past four years ago when I started at 
Duke. Sitting with my Grandmother in her white swing seat, swaying 
beneath elms that her mother planted seventy years ago, their shade 
dwindling from Dutch Elm disease but still majestic, a Wilkerson, our 
feet sunk in her cool three inch rye, I would hear stories of Papa, of the 
mansion, of barrels filled with apples, of hog killings, of the refrigera- 
tor-hole ten feet under against the well, of a family, a past — her past 
and their lifes — that she had practically outlived, even though the old- 
est of all the children, and had heard, could hear now, falling around 
her with whispers. So she talked, often her silver hair crimped up in 
Tip-Top curlers, planting that past in me as if it would grow, giving me 
the vain hope of restoration while she just talked patiently, as calmly 
as her garden - what she called the oasis - blossomed for spring, 
slowly as if time were air. (She told me one day she turned her back 
on a sultana with all its buds still holding back, just for seconds mind 
you, turned away watering, then turned back, and I want you to know 
every one of those buds had opened full.) 

The Wilkersons had moved off the hill two summers before and that 


virgin pine was dry and she knew it wasn't going to last another sum- 
mer. She was twenty, a junior at Trinity, walking home slow in no 
hurry and she saw it start. Those shingles were bone dry and she tells 
me again it's clear she saw it start, a white flicker from the stove pipe, a 
flicker like a white bird landing, then disappearing (her hand snaps 
once at my side) into a jet of blue smoke no longer then her arm. 
When she got to Papa it had gone up. She says now, "Oh, we had 
some big times." 
A week ago I heard from a friend living on Wilkerson Ave. that the 

well had been uncovered when a duplex was bulldozed. He says he 
heard the bulldozer driver talking with Mr. Moses about that well and 
Mr. Moses said that well was something — probably still is. According 
to Jim, my friend, one of the four foot high foundation walls of the 
mansion is in his backyard. The house he lives in is the third built on 
that land since the mansion. That's what one deaf Wilkerson who still 
lives on the street (no one in my family knows him) says. Just last 
week Jim said, they sealed the well (Mr. Moses won't let them fill it in) 
and poured a concrete slab down for a small, five room cottage. 


Writing about "the university" seems at best a tired proposal. "The 
university experience," or the absence thereof, the varying characteris- 
tics of each and their merits comparative with those of some never 
even for one man constant image of "ideal university" or even ideal 
education — to speak of such topics is to breathe the noxious air of 
words that have ceased to signify, and to voice one's own views on 
such will be to partake, however unintentionally, of similar cliche. 

Having thus spoken, the T of this fiction ("to speak is to invent," 
like they say) will now, for his own exhibitionistic titillation and for the 
highly theoretical pleasure of his even more theoretical audience, co- 
participant in what the good doctor calls "the classic caress of author 
and reader," risk . . . 

There was once a magazine, a humor magazine, it thought, and in 
what it called its death rattle it appeared as a critique of Duke Univer- 
sity. The "Summerfallwinterspring," 1968-69, issue of Peer was an ex- 
ercise in the futility of its own endeavor, as well as in, and I think 1 
speak for the rest of the staff as well as for myself, the indulgence of 
its own incompetence. We learned much about such self-indulgence 
(not, you're thinking, enough) and in fact it is with some tendency 
toward masochism that I speak of the magazine at all. But if anyone 
can find a copy, there are, 1 think, a few things in it that transcend 
cliche and continue to be of some interest, at least for me: an essay on 
fraternity life, a photographic essay, and several documents produced, 
with a great deal of involuntary cackling, by Duke University, whoever 
that is — the old mother hen, whose mate is this l^ogter you hold 
in your hands. 

The author of the essay on fraternities, now involved in the more 
sensible activity of teaching the banjo (for the banjo, too, can learn), 
maintained that "the learning situation is existential." As will be clear 
by now, of the learning situation I know nothing, and if the quoted 
remark does not make use of the dominant and least significative cliche 
of "our time," I will eat it, but I will agree with what I think the point 
was. For Duke University, whatever its wishes, is a part of the world, 
and perhaps a distorted emblem of the world. And that here, as there, 
it is only through the active expression of one's will that one defines, or 
creates, one's being, escapes the nothingness of unconscious, or too 
conscious, existence, is an observation I will hang more than my mortar 
board on. The Duke University an undergraduate encounters upon ar- 
rival is, 1 contend, a world more manichean than that which surrounds 
it. To grapple with it in the attempt to surmount the nothingness it, as 
any world theretofore unresponded to, constitutes, is to encounter an 
opponent more actively evil than the ordinary world, more likely to, 
for example, kick one in the balls before the fight starts. All along jus- 
tifying the dirty fighting with tacit promises of "it builds character," or 
"when you have your degree nothing else will matter." The nothing- 
ness Duke offers will have done more to scar the man who surmounts 
it than simply to give him a past of X years of bad faith. It is, for ex- 
ample, perhaps interesting to observe that the characteristics of the 
writing you are now reading are probably in large degree a response 
against, or variously an imitation of, the kind of writing argued by 
those who institutionally represent writing at Duke. My pen was dam- 
aged before it joined battle with its opponents. . . . 

Well, I have tried to make sense of the thing. The caress of author 
and reader — it has been a pleasure, for me. 

Hitting an old ball around 

Steve Emerson 





.-«.=JH .m 












iJf f^^W 


' ^-"if^ ■ 

PL 4/ ^I^^H 














The next six pictures you 
will see are selections from 
an Anthropology 
Department exhibit, 
organized and hung this past 
year by Vic Lukas. All the 
photographs were taken in 
the field. 


Photo by J. C. Crocker. 
"Uninitiated Bororo boy. 
He does not wear a ba, 
the penis sheath given at 
initiation. Perhaps over- 
romanticized, certainly 
and consequently poor 


Weston LaBarre. 
"Old Man Horse. A 
man of pronounced 
speculative bent, 
was father of the 
nationally famous 
Kiova artist, Monroe 
Hunting horse (Tsa 
toke), whose gonache 
paintings are now 
worth hundreds of 


J. C. Crocker 
"Woman pounding corn. 
Corn is an indigenous 
cultigen among the 
Bororo, and critical to 
their ecology. The mortar- 
pestle symbolism is well 
understood by them." 


J. C. Crocker 
"Mother and Child. 


Nancy Bowers 
"Kaugel Valley; an z 
visitor from down- 



Peter Huber 
"Sepik District of 
New Guinea. Ap- 
proaching Wamu 
village from the 
north with a load of 

'" ,'^f -, 

< V 


^^5*^^^ . 

page 1 34 amy 

page 135 interview with vernon pratt 
page 136 painting by linda hyatt 
page 138 "days" by vernon pratt 
page 140 painting by joan pavlovitch 
page 141 painting by vernon pratt 
page 142 more of the interview 
page 144 lower — painting by marilyn roaf 
upper — work by beginning 
students of sheila pratt 


Vernon Pratt: ... the print could be small enough so that you could do the 
vhole 2 hours on one page . . . there's a book in the library on Rauschenberg 
. . I don't know whether it was a mistake or not but all the type, the whole 
ext, is printed on top of photographs. They have color photographs of his 
vork, photographs ... of something . . . background to his work, maybe his 
itudio hall or his studio floor, I don't know what. There's a text by Andrew 
■orge, almost 90% of which is illegible, but what I can make out of it is that 
t's very critical, very art historical, and it was wonderful not being able to 
inderstand it at all. But at the same time, I'm responsible enough to want to 
;ive fair appraisal to things like that, that have been written. But 1 wonder if it 
!ven was planned, I can imagine Rauschenberg collaborating in having an ille- 
pble, unreadable book, but I can't imagine the writer taking it very seriously, 
ind writing it, and then allowing it to be in this book . . . Have you seen that 
)Ook? jock Ireland: No, I haven't. Illogical writing of it is a good idea because I 
lon't know how many people read it. Most of the people reading it would 
mly get out of it what isn't worth getting out of it. Mr. Pratt: If it were that 
egible . . . We should make this an interview of you — you have some very 
nteresting ideas. It will be, anyway. An interview is always of the interviewer, 
mean, the fact that he asks the questions. What I was thinking about before 
^ou turned the tape on was that the more you give thought to something the 
ess there is to be said about it . . . the more painful it is to speak about it. 
(Veil partly that it's hard to speak creatively on something you've already 
hought, and that itself might be an interesting comment on my teaching, if 
ny teaching is supposed to be at all the subject of this. I mean, I'm sure stu- 
lents don't appreciate how agonizing it is not to say anything. I don't mean to 
;eep yourself from saying something, but to think of one thing that is really 
'alid to say. At the same time you you always presume in teaching that the 
tudents know more than they do, I guess if you realize that you're not really 
)resuming it, but at the same time there's an awful lot that's available for 
hem to learn for themselves and you assume, often wrongly, that they will dp 
hat. They will learn all there is to learn for themselves and then you are re- 
ponsible for your own response, if they ask you for it, which also rarely 
lappens. If they asked you for that you could give it; if they said, "I would 
ike to have your response." So, as a result ot all these things you usually say 
'ery little. Well I do say very little. Some of the conversations we've had on 
vho should come to this department have hinged on that . . . because there is 
me type of teacher you can count on to have all the right things to say, not 
ust technically but historically and critically. And I've been myself favoring a 
ype of person who I'm not sure could directly help people, that you could 
cunt on to never say something that he wasn't sure of, from his own feelings, 
ather than from the idea that "this is good practice in art." Espousing good 
>ractice in art really amounts to being academic. Having already said that it's 
lainful to speak about art, since the speaker is or should be always aware of 
low much has already been said . . . not that it can't be repeated, actually 
'ne of the things that I do like to do in teaching is just repeat what artists or 
hinkers have already said, especially not reforming it and putting it in my 
■wn words or watering it down, it's very nice to have things verbatim, jock: 
Ian you say something about your own work, do you want to talk about it? 
)o you want to talk about Amy? Mr. Pratt: Amy would be nice to talk about, 
wish 1 could think about a way of relating it to art, I'm glad I can't. Well, if I 
eally wanted to strain it I could say that she has nothing to do with art, she's 
uch pure nature. But she is my child, that's the Amy you're talking about 
in't it? She's a perfect example at this age of being undefined and I am trying 
D make some art that's undefined, so it's very much itself, the only results 
j ve been able to get . . . nonexistent, invisible. It's very interesting that the 
l/riter for the university called me. He had heard that the museum now has 
ly painting and he wanted to photograph it and myself for the visiting digni- 
iries. And so the picture and I sat on a sculpture which everyone uses for a 
ench over there, which I suppose doesn't matter. After the photographer had 
ome in he realized that the thing couldn't be photographed, on the other 
and when the museum photographed it for the magazine they used lighting 
lat completely exaggerated it. What I had wanted to disappear, they tried to 
nd again. And it simply is a painting that you have to stand in front of to 
ee. It perturbed everyone but me, I thought it would be sort of nice to have it 
e a mystery. It has occurred to me lately that my art is nearly invisible, but I 
link that might be related to it being painful to speak of, just like it's difficult 
3 repeat ideas in conversation, concerning teaching or whatever. Ideas that 
(ready exist somewhere. It's difficult to go up to a student and say his draw- 
ig is unbalanced, it's difficult to say through a painting what's already been 
aid so I'm nearly reduced to not speaking in painting at the present time. 
ock: Can you talk about what you haven't done or what you're going to do? 
4r. Pratt: Recently in my paintings I actually have been eliminating nearly 
iverything I thought that 1 understood in order to find some sort of challenge 
f something I thought I didn't yet understand but I wanted to discover. Every 
nee in a while some morality would enter in and I would reintroduce color 
ito my paintings, but really I think the best periods in my painting, 8 or 9 

years of it, have been when I realized that by abandoning something I would 
understand more about what was left, but I couldn't have foreseen that it 
would come to nearly abandoning everything. At the same time there is so 
much left when you abandon everything. You find out what is really there if 
you leave out all your preconceptions. There's not much, it is hard to work 
with, but there is a lot there. Even if I say to myself I'll just use gray paint and 
keep working. I'm very interested in revising in painting. I always do arrive at 
my paintings by revising and responding to what I see. That's something I try 
to push in my teaching, to respond to what you see and then change that and 
make a painting on the painting, don't plan it and then hope to execute it. If 
you really could plan it, it wouldn't need execution, jock: When Creeley came 
last year, one thing he said about his poetry was that he didn't revise it . . . 
Mr. Pratt: I think that's fine. In poetry you could take either of two ap- 
proaches, a temporal one or a static one. For example, a jazz musician stands 
up there and he has to make it up on the spot in time even, which possibly 
makes it more difficult than that type of poetry because even if he, the poet, 
wasn't revising, he could stop and think ahead for a few minutes, but at the 
same time a poem could be very much revised. But painting is just a static 
thing, it's timeless, not in the sense of their value lasting through time, but, it 
doesn't have time, jock: Creeley could be associated with abstract expression- 
ism, with Kline, etc., perhaps your work would be more related to, uh, War- 
hol . . . Mr. Pratt: Actually it occurs to me that what I'm doing must be re- 
lated to abstract expressionism, but the AE that I like now is more the ones 
that I didn't like earlier. When I first started painting I liked gestural things 
like de Kooning. Franz Kline I still do like, but then he had the good taste to 
really narrow himself down quite a bit. Can I inject one of my brief formal 
statements? In painting, it is always what is useless but never what is unneces- 
sary. And that's related to revising in that when I revise I realize that I'm not 
doing the same thing over, I do something else. I even did some thinking 
about the space in my paintings, being space of the painting coming towards 
you in time. You can't really see it but in my paintings you could be aware of 
something happening before or behind what you're viewing. Because I've 
defined myself as not the type of painter like Ryman that I'm probably very 
easily compared to. It's where the similarities are closest that the differences 
can be perceived, and he is very interested in doing the very first time he 
touches the canvas something that he will accept. He throws away canvases, 
and I've thrown away a few, but I'm very interested if I don't like something 
because it gives me a sensation to work from. I tell my students to start work- 
ing right on the canvas, no preparing on paper beforehand, and when they do 
something they don't like then they're in good shape because you've got in- 
formation. You're better off not liking something because you've got more 
information about what you're doing than if you didn't like or dislike it. So 
that in a sense I'm coming toward the viewer in time and layers of work. I try 
not to let them build up into actual layers of paint too much. I'd like to un- 
derstand the response better but I don't. I only seem to learn to recognize it, 
my response that I don't need to work anymore, jock: Can you say something 
in contrast to Abstract Expressionism? Mr. Pratt: Strangely enough it's almost 
the same way of working, just the result is different. So, in reference to de 
Kooning and Kline, I guess I recognize in Kline more what my response is. 
My response is not only in black and white but in gray, but I recognize in 
my response what I was seeing in AE all the time. It's very strange about 
people's so-called objective views of art, that they actually do see themselves 
in what they're seeing. I'm sure that I saw in de Kooning what I liked doing 
myself. Because he definitely puts down paint and the next paint he puts 
down is in response to what is already there. But at the same time his paint- 
ings also seem to be about arrangement and I only want my paintings to be 
about response. So I try as unconsciously as possible to put down paint the 
same way all over the painting. I guess my work has to do with enjoying 
seeing something and wanting to form it some more. So I think I'm doing the 
same thing only it looks the same all over because I'm interested in how it 
will come to look in the end. I don't know, how would you describe my 
work? I mean, do you think that all this talking about it is any good because I 
begin to feel that if I say it, then that's what people will think that it is. And it 
can't be described in capsules, in words, jock: Which paintings would you like 
to have in the yearbook? Do you want to put paintings in? Mr. Pratt; Boy, I'd 
like to. I wonder if they'd reproduce. Of course opposite these illegible words, 
it'd be very appropriate to have an illegible painting. I was just thinking that 
your work is a good representation in a way it's visually a representation of 
my work which is invisible in photographs. And at the same time it would 
represent student work too. Are we going to include that statement "if we're 
going to use words, let's not use grammar"? jock: I don't know. It's a good 
thing to say, but after you've said it once ... I mean you can say it once, but 
if you write it down then that implies that you can read it over. That kind of 
statement isn't as smart if you can look at it again. Beckett, or someone like 
that, if he was going to use a statement like that, would be more careful. He'd 
say "if you're going to use grammar let's not use words". Mr. Pratt: That's a 



























"" " - -T^ 


good point. Jock: Writing something down implies that you can read it over. 
And you don't want people to think you're stupid, so, someone would read 
the first statement once and say that it's funny, and the second time he'd say 
it wasn't so funny, so the writer would have to move on to the second state- 
ment and the same type of thing would eventually happen there. It would get 
worse and worse. Mr. Pratt: Well, it gets down to the fact that words are one 
of the most permanent forms of preserving anything. That's why good writers 
are so good. ]ock: That could relate to your painting. Mr. Pratt: That could 
definitely relate to my painting. Because 1 haven't progressed beyond that in 
words, like my spontaneous funny ideas, . . . what was it that Wittgenstein or 
somebody writing about him said that he was disappointed because the phi- 
losophy of his time had been reduced to just the invention of syllogisms, 
which sounds like what we've been saying. He wasn't satisfied that that could 
be philosophy, so he would have to be very careful with words. And that's 
why I'm very careful in painting, why I'm reduced to next to nothing, because 
so much art, especially what people like to hang on their walls, amounts to 
just that same kind of insignificant statement. Maybe words could be called 
decorative also. Decorative to artists always does imply some kind of minor 
significance. There was another idea 1 had about painting that it was better to 
start off uninteresting and never have your work deteriorate. I'm very inter- 
ested in the kind of art that isn't necessarily interesting. I think if you are in- 
terested in that kind of art, it astounds you when you see it, if you're in the 
mood to be moved by it. I began painting in a prep schodl art course, and part 
of the course was just looking at a lot of slides. A painter was showing them 
and he made a point of showing a lot of slides and talking very little about 
them. It wasn't that long ago, I was a high school senior, 1957. The other stu- 
dents, when we got to Mondrian, just didn't accept that as art, and I did. I was 
slightly surprised at myself, but when I had to consider it, I did accept it as 
art. It was interesting, to find that in myself. To get back to that other subject, 
1 think that the best art hasn't seemed, publicly, very interesting. My other 
favorite painter of the time was Vermeer, and I didn't like the corny analogy 
that they're both Dutch, and well, in fact, that they both use red, yellow, and 
blue predominantly. And I'm not interested in other things, such as they're 
both classical, and you can find rectangles in Vermeer, as much as I'm inter- 
ested to know that he wasn't very well received in his lifetime, whereas now 
he's recognized as making the rest of them seem like illustrators. ]ock: How 
about Morandi? Mr. Pratt: I think he's the best painter of this century. Mond- 
rian is also definitely a good painter, I mean there are hundreds of good artists 
in this century. Just as I'm not interested in some formal relationship between 
Vermeer and Mondrian, I am interested in painters realizing themselves 
through their painting, and there have been alot of those in this century. You 
look at painters very hard when you're interested in them, and the lesson of 
most of them has been how true they were to their own vision. If they got 
deep enough into themselves they always found something universal. Mond- 
rian stands for everything, exactly as Jackson Pollock does, or any other good 
artist. Van Gogh seems to me to have led the way to that realization. If you 
make a comparison between Vermeer and Rembrandt . . . Rembrandt gets so 
popular that you begin to resent him, whereas myself I've never tired of Ver- 
meer. With Picasso ... it took expansion of everyone's minds to accept him, 
but once they did he was almost too accepted. Whereas it was painful for Van 
Gogh to achieve what he did. I went off the topic of Morandi, but I do think 
he's the best . . . let's put in the Qaritideer that I think Warhol is a very 
good artist. It's so true, well, now it's almost like common knowledge, but it 
does give you an example of how recognition of truths like that, I haven't said 
he's a great artist but a good one . . . Jock: I'll say he's a great artist. Mr. Pratt: 
Okay, the younger generation says he's great. I think he's a very good artist, 
he's as good as anyone I've thought about. One of my other absolute favorites 
that I prefer a little bit to Warhol is Lichtenstein. He states the fact of him 
painting a subject without saying about it. Remember we were making an an- 
alogy between words and painting? Lichtenstein is so great because there are 
even words right there, the painting does tell you something, but it really 
doesn't tell you anything, it's so deadpan. The less painting teaches you the 
more it shows you. Because if it's teaching you something it's translating itself 
into words, which is really what people like in art, they love to have their at- 
tention not called to the fact of what the thing is, materially, and how it's 
formed, that's why Surrealism is the all time favorite and Realism is now a 
close second. Another informing statement would be to say that Realism, 
good Realism, I think Pearlstein is good, but also I think that a few of the 
realists that work from photographs are just as good, and they all depend 
on how dead-pan they try to imitate a work from their subject without 
conveying any more message than the subject has to give. They're a lot like 
Lichtenstein, they're very much pop oriented artists. They're just hard 
working rather than lazy Pop. Warhol was a genius because he recognized 
that if it was gonna be Pop it could be lazy. And I think it was very hard 
for him to come to that realization. To find out that it wasn't the difficulty 
that was the point of being an artist. (Jock suggests to delete the idea of 

Warhol ever working hard. Pratt agrees.) I still do think that, given tha 
Warhol is right that it can be easy, well, it's amazing how similar to Van Gogl 
Warhol is. Everyone hated him in the beginning, but basically people do lov( 
him, deep down inside. They felt sorry about Jackie and Marilyn, and he put; 
it in a way that it isn't nostalgia, it's just silkscreen. It just occurred to me tha 
it's as easy to conjure up the image of a Warhol "Marilyn" as it is to conjure 
up the image of Van Gogh flowers. (Jock suggests that he is better than Lich 
tenstein.) I wouldn't say that he was better than anybody. Because the point i: 
that he was himself. I don't see why you need to compare because for me 
Lichtenstein is being himself by continuing to work with paint. Jock: I can' 
understand that Lichtenstein is about just painting, that he could just pain 
and paint and paint . . . Mr. Pratt: I think a significant difference is that Lich 
tenstein always was a painter. He wanted to make paintings, so he founc 
out that he could make paintings without making up paintings. He coulc 
just take things that he liked ... I think he looked through comic books' 
at least in the beginning, just like an Impressionist painter wou" 
walk around the landscape. Van Gogh would go out and walk arounc' 
and say this is the spot 1 want to paint from. Lichtenstein found thai 
he could just as easily look through a comic book and say that's the frame 
I want to paint, and then he would form it in painting it anyway. No one 
should ever criticize him without seeing some of the comparisons o: 
how he has formed. He's done comics so well that it's really disappoint- 
ing to look at comics because they're so cluttered and unreadable, anc 
dull. Warhol on the other hand always wanted to be successful, he didn' 
want to paint, that's why he's been able to go from painting to film to what- 
ever. He's made art out of wanting to be successful. And what is the basi( 
thing that is so good about Warhol is that he's never denied it. He's nevei 
denied that other people gave him his ideas and that other people did his work 
. . . Jock: . . . anyway, what characterizes Proust's writing, which I haven't 
read, is that it's always kind of a last gasp, it's similar to Warhol's work, 
which I've never seen, in that there's just the right amount of effort put into it 
Which is all the effort in the world. Mr. Pratt: I was amazed ... I went to the 
Mondrian exhibit, expecting to be disappointed because I'd been so interested 
in Mondrian at earlier times, when I was thinking relationships and parts ir. 
paintings and thinking that way. Not perfect but expressive relationships be- 
tween the parts of the paintings, and I admired Mondrian, and that's what l' 
thought he was about and I expected to be disappointed because I'm no lonj 
er interested in doing that myself. But to my amazement, and this may ha- 
to do with seeing yourself outside of yourself, well, I was disappointed if 1 
was looking for composition, which is what all the art histories tell you tc 
look for, although in Mondrian they can never really point to it cause he's sc 
sly, they can only say it's there. I had this overwhelming sensation though 
that what they really were about was that the painting was filled up with' 
paint. Which is alot how I'm working now, but it was too strong to be only in 
my mind. It was very obvious in some earlier ones which were divided up 
equally into checkerboards, and filled up, but even in the later ones it really 
wasn't the proportion of say, the red square to the white, or the placement ol 
it, their expressive relationships are a large part of them, but I think that ma> 
only serve his own need to want to make paintings, so he had that as 
justification for doing it and he enjoyed doing it and there it was. Paint jusf 
filled up the canvas. I kept thinking these things are just pulsating with pur- 
pose, because all parts of them were very purposefully filled up. And interest- 
ingly enough his last paintings did get back to that . . . they're just too com- 
plicated and jazzed up to be considered the correct expressive relationships, 
they've gone back to being just all filled up. And Warhol does that perfectly 
too. If you see his paintings, which people never will take the trouble to do, 
they find it so easy to criticize painters, they can't even be told about them 
I've been a part of conversations where people say "Have you heard about 
that painter that does all black paintings? Isn't that just terrible?" And they've 
never even seen a photograph. It's very interesting that people criticise the 
without even seeing a reproduction. But when you see Warhol you see that he 
has done, in the Mondrian sense, what is necessary, (they take a break) Mi 
Pratt: I am avoiding the topic of art at Duke and we're both happy about that 
because the way it is is the way the majority wants it. (rustle of paper) I've 
just washed my hands of it. Jock: That's the best conclusion after complaining 
about it amongst ourselves for so long. Mr. Pratt: Well, we do complain about 
it. That's a little bit more constructive . . . Jock: Well it's not so much being 
constructive, 'cause nothing's so constructive. Mr. Pratt: I will say this, I'm just 
sorry that so many people here, I'm not talking about students, just out of the 
whole community of the university, that so many people are missing it, be- 
cause art is really something. I'm not talking about things to hang on your 
wall. Like tapestries are nice, they're going to hang a few on the walls in the 
music building. And I don't think they ought to buy a painting, but people 
are just missing art around here. It's too bad. It's one of the most compelling 
pastimes that I can think of, to just know about it, and how it's developing. 
And it takes so httle effort. It's so easy to look at. I saw Dennis Hopper's Th 

Last Movie last night, it was terrific, I've got to go again. He really is the genius 
that everyone paints him. And he's being done wrong on this movie because 
of the distributors, because he's given it the form of an unfinished movie . . . 
every once in a while something will flash on the screen that will say "scene 
missing," and the film has the form of a film which is incomplete. I was just 
wondering if in general the Duke faculty would like that movie, and a lot of 
them would, there are a lot of good minds here, but so far as if any of them 
are interested in art, I'm not as aware of it as I'd like to be. I mean new and 
old art. Well now we're going to get into the topic. For some reason the uni- 
versity believes very stongly that the best approach to art is to encourage the 
amateur over the professional. What we see very much is the idea that art can 
be everyone's hobby, so there's a lot more enthusiasm about putting extracur- 
icular art activities in a new student union than there is in making a place for 
serious art, which would have a spin-off of amateur art, and it would be better 
imateur art too. But 1 think it's been hard for the other arts too. Drama's had 
terrible time, it seems to me unfair to teach histories of drama, and then not 
■ecognize real participating in drama. I think what they do in theatre here is 
;ood; it's just too bad there isn't more official encouragement. It is possible 
:hat official encouragement destroys it, but I don't think that's the reason for it 
jeing discouraged, in other words, I think the reason for it being discouraged 
s the assumption that it's not serious enough. If you work with your hands 
It used to annoy me quite a lot that art courses are called skill courses 
jecause think of any course, think of physics, it's nothing but skill, mathe- 
matics is nothing but skill. Because of the lower levels of study you're only 
icquiring preexisting knowledge, and improving your skill at applying that 
cnowledge. In art you start right out from the beginning making your own 
liscoveries because you've got to apply the existing knowledge to your own 
ibilities, and not just your abilities to achieve the existing knowledge, because 
he existing knowledge is that there's got to be something of yourself right 
Tom the beginning. You know you can't tell a person everything about how 
o make even the simplest art object because it always has to be adjusted to 
heir ovm desire. I think the courses have less to do with skill than most 
:ourses. Well, maybe we'd better change the subject, because come to think 
)f it, they're pretty good about it in a lot of ways philosophically and it might 
!ven be bad to over-encourage. The places, at least in this area, where I see 
irt encouraged, I'm pretty dissatisfied with the level of art that's coming out. 
Turn this off a second. Well, yeah, you could put some of that in, but it's 
lard for me to accept that someone at this point is actually — well for one 
hing, it's already been done by Warhol, and it was 24 hours long. I hate to 
hink that someone will actually have to type all of this out. It would be nice 
. (knock at door-footsteps and muffled conversation about a mystery 
bject) Where are we? My whole idea is fleeting, gone. Actually, the best 
leas always are lost, that's appropriate to painting, thinking, I mean, I don't 
now how many times I've been painting and had a thought and told myself, 
write that down. Or all those people that wake up and write down a 
lought they had, so they don't lose it, but it was better before they salvaged 
It always is, and not only that, in painting also, I'm very much involved in 
ccepting that the best paintings are going to be lost, so you might as well let 
lem go, and then you're not working against that uptight feeling of if I go 
n, I may be destroying my masterpiece. You just go on automatically. And 
ien all the paintings left are just a residue of the fact that you kept on going, 
id overall they add up, approximately, to what that masterpiece might have 
een, if you had been lucky enough to recognize it and save it while it was 
appening. That is a good way of saying what my approach is. What I'm 
•ying to do, well sometimes I can't do it because I get precious, because I 
link. Well, after all, I'm in this business to make what I think are good 
lintings, and shouldn't I stop and decide if this is good right now, before I 
on and mess it up? But I'm really working hard against that idea. Because 
rtually I think what I am in it for, is just for the privilege of doing it, and let- 
ng whatever comes out come out. I don't like my paintings that much. I 
;ard a great statement by Franz Klein, he said, "1 don't like my paintings 
ry much, but I'm stuck with them." And that says alot. But the idea we 
•ere going to say before, . . . that I'm not interested in talking about the 
niversity, but what did I say? ]ack: You wanted to get it all written down, and 
len you'd be able to cut out all the stuff . . . Mr. Pratt: Oh, yeah. I'll help 
Du edit it because once I see in print what I said about the university, I'll 
robably see that it doesn't need saying, but what did I say in the end? Jock: 
's pass6 to criticise. Mr. Pratt: Well that's not as good as it was, you see? All 
le gems are off the tape. All the gems are in your mind. I can put down, 
ell, it's almost image seeking to say, but it's true, well I don't want to be the 
pe of person that says, "My biggest influence was . . .", but in terms of 
ggest influences in thinking, I very much like John Coltrane, which is stupid 
■ say, because at the time I was a saxophonist, so he would have been an 
fluence anyway. But I thought of him because I want to say that I like all 
usic, and he said about religion, when a lot of people were stereotyping him 
have him become this religious mystic, and he said I like all religions. Still, 

if I think about it, I mean, I can't think of a painter . . . it's the horrible thing 
about having that machine on, because you start thinking of well, what do I 
want recorded. I have thought quite a lot that I couldn't think of one painter, 
like I can say Mondrian for this century I think, means the most to me. But 
there's losts of others. And Vermeer meant the most to me from his century 
or something. Centuries are arbitrary but convenient ways of dividing time. 
So if there were a single figure it would be Coltrane. I haven't ever really 
thought exactly why. I can think of ways why . . . I'm happy my painting 
finally is getting to, I sort of gave up music and I was pretty good. But I think 
I realized I had gotten as good as I was gonna be without a whole lot of work, 
I was doing it along with painting, and then I quit it. But also it bothered me 
that my painting and my music seemed different to me, I couldn't resolve 
differences among them. I practised the music a lot too, I mean actual real 
practice skills, but then when I played it was very emotional and expressive, 
or at least it seemed to me that that was to be my goal. And at the time my 
paintings seemed, well perhaps it was a basic conflict between being able to 
revise and not being able to revise. But also my painting was very controlled 
and my music, I aspired to it being not very controlled. The music I didn't 
like was music that was too controlled. I guess what I'd like to say about him 
is that he represented something to me that I couldn't say one single painter 
did, but now I recognize more and more something about it in my painting 
and that was he was reputed to have practiced very hard, but then when he 
played he didn't use anything that he had learned, and it helps me to connect 
all my earlier work with what I do now to think that that was practice for 
now, and now might be practice for later. But it's been rather hard for me to 
sort out the fact that I've been through, and the word is appropriate here, 
styles. Jock: To what extent can you say sensational things about Coltrane? Mr. 
Pratt: You can't say anything that's sensational about him, that's the sensa- 
tional part! But the music's really sensational. I don't know, I never knew if 
other people who couldn't play the instrument could actually appreciate what 
he did. And it's probably very true of painting that you have to paint to ap- 
preciate painting, I can't imagine anyone liking my paintings. Something that's 
been on my mind is that I'm sure things would go a lot easier for me here at 
this university if my painting were more likable. But I never expect people to 
like it, in fact I'm surprised that they like it a little more than I would expect 
them to. Some people anyway. I think though, if it were more extrovert, I 
think there's a great weakness among people that aren't artists but have some- 
thing to do with artists, that they like artists to know — it's easy to succumb 
to, say, bringing an artist to the university because you want to know that ar- 
tist. So naturally you want to pick an artist that would be, well, you want to 
pick a famous artist for one thing, but also an artist that would be fun to 
know, like an artist who will "communicate", you know, an artist who will be 
very talkative. Or an artist who feels less of the pain about speaking about art, 
because naturally, the more he says, the more he communicates, the more 
you're having this contact, social and seemingly intellectual contact with . . . 
do you know what I'm trying to say? I don't think even bad artists are like 
that. I guess painters in general are fairly quiet. Jock: It's not necessarily quiet, 
but there's the solitude of the artist and all that kind of stuff, that's not any- 
thing especially romantic, that's just the way it goes. Artists are solitary peo- 
ple. Mr. Pratt: Yeah, and actually it is fairly well appreciated even here, be- 
cause I've really been given a lot of feedom to practice my own art, and even 
so I feel like I must be a disappointment to people here because my art is 
uninteresting, definitely not amusing, or entertaining art, and even my pur- 
pose is for it to be not too interesting, so then it won't decline in interest, I 
think that I developed into that. Not only that but the way that I came here 
was not exactly an enthusiastic welcome. I just became more and more per- 
manent as time went on. And that was alright too. You see I really appreciate 
the freedom I've had, but art definitely is an area in which . . . (new person 
enters to be included in the interview. Sheila, Mrs. Pratt) We do need some 
new blood. Let me finish this one idea I was going to say. It's like aft idea I've 
already had, you see, I precede every thought with an apology because of this 
damn tape recorder. But it is true that people are afraid to judge music and 
they're afraid to judge writing, but for some reason, because it's so easy to 
look at, so easy to see and so easy to make a judgment, that it's hard to find 
someone that doesn't consider themselves qualified to make judgments on art. 
So that although they would never decide what music should be performed in 
their parlor, or what book should be on their shelves, everybody decides what 
hangs on their wall. Including university presidents. And that struck me as 
unusual, although I can understand it. I think it's because it seems easy to 
judge art, whereas everyone is intimidated by literary forms and musical 
forms, maybe because art is somehow between literary and abstract. I'm not 
sure what the reasons are, but everybody knows what they like, whereas in 
music they'll just sit there, through things that they definitely don't like and 
never complain. For one thing, they ave to sit there, it's embarrassing to get 
up and leave, through Bartok, for instance. Music definitely as a technical fa- 
cade and some obscurity to hide behind, so that even contemporary music is 


to it again and hear more in it. So I was saying about your paintings that it 
would be nice if people after seeing them several times came to like them 
more than they did the first time. And maybe the fourth time and fifth time 
and sixth time they'd like them more and more, without even being told what 
to like. Even without being told that you were necessarily good or whatever. 
They could form their own decision and the thing would grow on them. Jock: 
If it were good it would grow on them. Sheila: Right. Mr. Pratt: Well you can 
see how I come to my conclusion about if you like it the first time it might be 
lousy. Sheila: I know, 1 keep encouraging my students to do things they don't 
like . . . Mr. Pratt: Why the encouragement? Because they'll learn to like their 
own things, more than they do like them? Sheila: No, they'll just learn more 
from them. ]ock: If someone goes into the room and looks at their thing and 
starts to laugh, they'll do something better . . . Mr. Pratt: But if someone 
came in and laughed and they didn't feel discouraged . . . jock: That is the 
greatest feeling . . . Mr. Pratt: That's the real thing . . . That's what I strive 
for, and I don't even expect people to like what I do anymore, I don't think 
you do either. Sheila: It's like I feel so strongly about my paintings that it 
doesn't matter anymore what people think. I only hear the compliments any- 
way. I say "I know, I know . . ." Mr. Pratt: I was just thinking that it might 
be about to run out. Sheila: Great. Mr. Pratt: Let's have Sheila make a summa- 
tion. Try to say something that we've already said. Oh, I know what we can 
do in the remaining time. Jock said that Wittgenstein said that somebody else 
said that you could say everything important in three words. Mr. Pratt and 
Sheila together: Let's all think of three words. Sheila: I can think of maybe one. 
Mr. Pratt: Well the thing is we should confine ourselves to one three-word 
statement like Art is Life (yeccch), like I thought of that immediately, but I'm 
certainly not going to put everything into that statement. Jock: It's not over. 
Mr. Pratt: There's three more. There's three more! It is true! It's all over. Cut it 
off. Wind it up . . . 



Protest marches! Identity Crises! rvlind-blovving drugs! 

Is it any wonder that today's concerned young man and woman 
treasure those rare moments when the cares of the everyday world 
seem to melt away, revealing the exciting, sparkling fairyland of a 
night on the town. What aware young couple can resist the magical 
lure of bright lights and the good times of the city? Who among 
them is so involved that they will not take the time to bathe their 
furrowed brows in the flashing lights of the theatre marquee and 
soothe troubled guts with fine food and drink? Who would do 
this? Do you know? We don't know. 

Yes, when all is said and done today's effective young person is 
the one who knows how to relax, and the ^aqticlecf's own Ed 
and Nancy are no exceptions. As young and vibrant people who 
repeatedly join their contemporaries in making the big headlines of 
today, they know the value of those meaningful moments of to- 
getherness afforded by a 

with Ed and Nancy 

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, our 
Qaqticleer couple poses briefly be- 
fore venturing into the big, exciting, 
fairytale world of downtown Dur- 


Their first stop: dinner for two in a swinging hideaway of a 
restaurant, tastefully decorated in the neo-Medieval style, 
with catering by a famous southern university. The proprietor 
requested that we not divulge the real name of the establish- 
ment (for security reasons), so we shall simply refer to it 
here as the Harvard University Club. We asked Ed and 
Nancy about the cuisine. 

"It's . . . unforgettable," Ed replied. "I've never had any- 
thing quite like it." 

"That's right," agreed Nancy. "It's the sort of food that 
stays with you." 

Our aware young couple, by a lucky stroke, has secured 
first night tickets to the premiere of the nouveau-art spec- 
tacular of the young Italian film-maker. Pier Paolo Pornolini. 

"I'm not sure that I entirely understand Pornolini's work," 
says Ed. "A good deal of his images are quite obscure and, 
I would imagine, intensely personal. But even so I find my- 
self coming away from his films with a sense of being up- 
lifted in an almost inexplicable way." 

Adds Nancy, "I find myself being provoked in a very posi- 
tive fashion by his work. It fascinates me the way Pornolini 
can fuse together disparate images, laying one on top of 

We asked our couple if they had ever thought of produc- 
ing their own film. 

"Sure," Ed replied. 

"Yeah," Nancy said. 

After the show the night is still 
young, and a round of club-hopping 
is in order. First, a visit to Annama- 
ria's, a favorite gathering place for 
aware young people. We asked our 
couple if the Italian dining spot was 
also popular with them. 

"Oh, si!" quipped Nancy. 

"Ole!" giggled Ed. 

Next, it's cocktails for two at a funky little sin- 
gles bar just down the street. Caught up in the 
intimacy of the moment, the ducky pair of love- 
birds, eyes aglow, seize the moment to indulge in 
a tender exchange of affection, secure in the 
knowledge that their brief intimacy was hidden 
from the prying eyes of everyone except our staff 


Morning — and our two night owls toast 
the rising sun with a brief but satisfying 
breakfast at a local cafe where the food 
is plentiful and the eggs flow like water. 

Then it's home and to bed for our young college man and woman. 
Sleep comes quickly to their tired eyes, but their hearts and dreams are 
still awake with the happy events of the evening gone by. When they 
awake, refreshed and ready for a new day, there can be no world crisis 
or fascist crack-down which will daunt their spirit, for they will carry 
with them the memories of the night before, the happy thoughts of a 

Our Nancy is a person of diversified 
interests and moods. Though working 
hard on her thesis for a degree in the 
field of thermodynamic horticulture, 
she still finds time for numerous hob- 
bies, which include the sports of 
Jai-Alai and logrolling. She is uncer- 
tain about her future. "It's so difficult 
to decide what's best for me," she 
says. "I can say that I feel a strong 
commitment to making this country 
and its system of government work." 
"So perhaps I'll wind up doing so- 
cial work. Or maybe I could get a job 
with Dow Chemical. You know, mak- 
ing napalm," she cooed. 

Ed is also a person of unusual com- 
mitment. "1 committed three counts of 
armed robbery, 1 committed assault 
with intent to maim, and I committed 
the act of conspiracy to jaywalk," he 
explains, "and then 1 was committed 
for a period of forty-five years with- 
out parole. After six months 1 com- 
mitted a jailbreak and then I commit- 
ted myself to you guys. Are you 
taking all this down?" 

Like Nancy, Ed is also uncertain 
about the future. He would like to be 
either the director of the Ford Foun- 
dation or the Archbishop of Canter- 








— '-^^"-•- - 

^ :..*^^m^ 

A ■' 



I first became aware of the Hum when I was a 
junior at a Southern version of More Science 
High School. My first feeling at that time was the 
excitement of discovery, and I said to myself, 
"Oh, neat! The building's alive!" At the same 
time there was the thought, "Would a normal 
person think this?" and so 1 told no one about it. 
The building seemed to be speaking only to me 
in disclosing its hum. How many other people 
knew about it? How dangerous would it be to 
mention it aloud? I was afraid to find out. 

But all around me consciousnesses were ex- 
panding; the boundaries of human thought were 
being stretched to the utmost; I was returning to 
the nature of the origin of the Hum. There were 
two possibilities: either the Hum originated in 
some sort of machinery, or the building was 
breathing. Or both. In any case, I knew that this 
particular building was not the only one that 
hummed. Soon afterward, I read a science fiction 
story which suggested to me the possible exis- 
tence of a more sinister force behind this Hum 
than I had feared previously. 

Several years later I found myself eating sup- 
per in the East Union with some friends. During 
a pause in the conversation, ]. F. said, "Do you 
notice the Hum?" I marvelled at his courage for 
asking — in the very presence of the Hum! 

Now the secret is out. Duke hums. No matter 
which building you are in, which floor, or which 
room, you can hear the hum. Even in the depths 
of the Forest you will hear it (although it will try 
to disguise itself as a motorcycle). More to the 
point, if you are inside a building, without a view 
of the outside, there is no way to tell how far off 
the ground you are. 


"I think the house is a rocket ship," I said. 

They stared at me. Phil grinned; then he stopped when he saw I 
wasn't kidding. 

"What?" Marge said. 

"I know it sounds crazy," I said, sounding more like my wife than 
she did. "But those are rocket engines. 1 don't know how in the hell 
they got there but ..." 1 shrugged helplessly at the whole idea. "All I 
know is that they're rocket engines." 

"That doesn't mean it's a ... a ship?" Phil finished weakly, switch- 
ing from statement to question in mid-sentence. 

"Yes," said Ruth. 

And I shuddered. That seemed to settle it. She'd been right too often 

"But . . ." Marge shrugged. "What's the point?" 

Ruth looked at us. "I know," she said. 

"What, baby?" I asked, afraid to be asking. 

"That janitor," she said, "He's not a man. We know that. The third 
eye makes it . . ." 

"You mean the guy has one?" Phil asked incredulously. 

I nodded. "He has one. I saw it." 

"Oh, my God," he said. 

"But he's not a man," Ruth said again. "Humanoid, yes, but not an 
earthling. He might look like he does actually — except for the eye. But 
he might be completely different, so different he had to change his 
form. Give himself that extra eye just to keep track of us when we 
wouldn't expect it . . . What if they're from another planet. Suppose 
they want some Earth people to experiment on. To observe," she 
amended quickly. 1 don't know for whose benefit. The idea of being 
experimented on by three-eyed janitors from another planet had noth- 
ing exciting about it. 

"What better way," Ruth was saying, "of getting people than to 
build a rocket ship apartment house, rent it out cheap, and get it full 
of people fast?" 

She looked at us without yielding an inch. 

"And then," she said, "just wait till some morning early when every- 
body was asleep and . . . goodbye Earth." 

My head was whirling. It was crazy, but what could 1 say? I'd been 
cleverly dubious three times. I couldn't afford to doubt now. It wasn't 
worth the risk. And, in my flesh, I sort of felt she was right. 

"But the whole house," Phil was saying. "How could they get it . . . 
in the air?" 

"If they're from another planet, they're probably centuries ahead of 
us in space travel." 

Phil started to answer. He faltered, then he said, "But it doesn't look 
like a ship." 

"The house might be a shell over the ship," I said. "It probably is. 
Maybe the actual ship includes only the bedrooms. That's all they'd 
need. That's where everybody would be in the early morning hours if 

"No," Ruth said. "They couldn't knock off the shell without attract- 
ing much attention." 

We were all silent, laboring under a thick cloud of confusion and 
half-formed fears. Half-formed because you can't shape your fears of 
something when you don't even know what it is. 

"Listen," Ruth said. 

It made me shudder. It made me want to tell her to shut up with her 
horrible forebodings. Because they made too much sense. 

"Suppose it is a building," she said. "Suppose the ship is outside of it." 

"But . . ." Marge was practically lost. She got angry because she was 
lost. "There's nothing outside the house, that's obvious!" 

"Those people would be way ahead of us in science," Ruth said. 
"Maybe they've mastered invisibility of matter." 

We all squirmed at once, I think. "Babe," I said. 

"Is it possible?" Ruth asked strongly. 

I sighed. "It's possible, just possible." 

We were quiet. Then Ruth said, "Listen." 

"No," I cut in, "you listen. I think maybe we're going overboard on 
this thing. But there are engines in the basement and the janitor does 
have three eyes. On the basis of that I think we have reason enough to 
clear out. Now." 

We all agreed on that anyway. 

"We'd better tell everybody in the house," Ruth said. "We can't 
leave them here." 

"It'll take too long," Marge argued. 

"No, we have to," I said. "You pack, babe. I'll tell them." 

I headed for the door and grabbed the knob. 

Which didn't turn. 

A bolt of panic drove through me. I grabbed at it and yanked hard. I 
thought for a second, fighting down fear, that it was locked on the in- 
side. I checked. 

It was locked on the outside. 

"What is it?" Marge said in a shaking voice. You could sense a 
scream bubbling up in her. 

"Locked," I said. 

Marge gasped. We all stared at each other. 

"It's true," Ruth said, horrified. "Oh, my God, it's all true then." 

I made a dash for the window. Then the place started to vibrate as if 
we were starting to get hit by an earthquake. Dishes started to rattle 
and fall off shelves. We heard a chair crash onto its side in the kitchen. 

"What is it?" Marge cried again. Phil grabbed for her as she started 
to whimper. Ruth ran to me and we stood there, frozen, feeling the 
floor rock under our feet. 

"They have to warm up!" I made a wild guess. "We can still get out!" 

I let go of Ruth and grabbed a chair. For some reason I felt that the 
windows were automatically locked too. 

I hurled the chair through the glass. The vibrations were getting worse. 

"Quick!" I shouted over the noise. "Out the fire escape! Maybe we 
can make it!" 

Impelled by panic and dread. Marge and Phil came running over the 
shaking floor. I almost shoved them out through the gaping window 
hole. Marge tore her skirt. Ruth cut her fingers. I went last, dragging a 
glass dagger through my leg. I didn't even feel it I was so keyed up. 

I kept pushing them, hurrying down the fire escape steps. Marge 
caught a slipper heel in between two gratings and it snapped off. Her 
slipper came off. She limped, half fell down the orange-painted metal 
steps, her face white and twisted with fear. Ruth in her loafers clattered 
down behind Phil. I came last, shepherding them frantically. 

At the bottom was a ladder. We saw an old lady drop from it with a 
sickening thud, crying out in pain as her ankle twisted under her. Her 
husband dropped down and helped her up. The building was vibrating 
harshly now. We saw dust scaling out from between the bricks. 

My voice joined the throng, all crying the same word, "Hurry!" 

I saw Phil drop down. He half caught Marge, who was sobbing in 
fright. I heard her half-articulate, "Oh, thank God!" as she landed and 
they started up the alleyway. Phil looked back over his shoulder at us, 
but Marge dragged him on. 

"Let me go first!" I snapped quickly. Ruth stepped aside and I swung 
down the ladder and dropped, feeling a sting in my insteps, a slight 
pain in my ankles. I looked up, extending my arms for her. She 
dropped and I caught her. We regained our balance and started up the 
alley. I could hardly breathe. I had a stitch in my side. 

As we dashed into the street we saw Johnson, the neighborhood cop, 
moving through the ranks of scattered people trying to herd them to- 

"Here now!" he was calling. "Take it easy!" 

We ran up to him. "Johnson!" I said. "The ship, it's . . ." 

"Ship?" He looked incredulous. 

"The house! It's a rocket ship! It's . . ." TTie ground shook wildly. 

Johnson turned away to grab someone running past. My breath 
caught and Ruth gasped, throwing her hands to her cheeks. 

Johnson was still looking at us; with that third eye. The one that had 
a smile with it. 

"No," Ruth said shakily. "No." 

And then the sky, which was growing light, grew dark. My head 
snapped around. Women were screaming their lungs out in terror. I 
looked in all directions. 

Solid walls were blotting out the sky. 

"Oh my God," Ruth said. "We can't get out. It's the whole block." 

Then the rockets started. 

— from "Shipshape Home" by Richard Matheson 




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"This liberation which we demand, which we 
can create for ourselves. We demand it — we 
won't get anywhere demanding it. you know 
that. But we can create it . . . Very slowly 
women are doing extraordinary things by 
becoming aware of their position." 

— AnaYs Nin 






»^, ■^'"•i 




r-t:-:- ' -T^.f^f,-^^. 






Barbara Sydenham Thompson January 5, 1938 - February 12, 1972 


(Toni Kramer lives in Durham, and has given clinics at Duke in 
Natural Childbirth methods. Her husband, Richard, took all these 
[:)hotogra|Dhs — with the single exception of the photo on the far 
right, next page, which Nurse Angelica took.) 

For most people the discovery that they are about to become 
parents is a joyous occasion filled with promise and plans for their 
future. For some it is frightening to consider all the implications and 
complexities that are wrought with financial hardship, change in 
relationship and fears based on lack of knowledge and understand- 
ing of the process. Most of these uncertaintities can be dispelled if 
the parents-to-be have at hand information which can make them 
ac live participants in the process. 

All too often a woman discovers she is pregnant, arbitrarily 
chooses an obstetric lan and leavers the details up to the profession 
of the practicing obstetrician I marvel at the advanced technologi- 
cal achievements within the f)rotession in dealing with [pregnancy, 
labor and delivery. There are many new methods for detection anci 
treatment of conditions during pregnancy (hat can ettec taely elimi- 
nate or reduce hazards to mother and child. No longer ni:'iK\ 
women fear the disastrous results of Rh incompatibility. Much is 
now known about the effect of nutrition on pregnancy and many 
complications can be averted through proper nutrition. And yet too 
seldom is information and preparation in childbirth offered to ex- 
pectant parents. And more often a real lack of consideration for the 
person as a human being is present during the regular visits with an 
obstetrician. I feel that the [profession is in the most likely position 
to take on the additional responsibility for initiating education and 
training for expec t<inl [jarciils In co-operation with resources and 
services within the communily, classes in chilclbirth preparation can 
be taught by trained and exfjerienced [personnel. Nutrition can be 


improved. Breastfeeding can be encouraged and the benefits to the 
family explained. And parents can work together to participate in 
the Ijirth of their child. 

The psycho-prophylactic method of childbirth (Lamaze tech- 
nicjue) is relatively new. It received its original trial and application 
in Russia in 1949. Its effectiveness was noted there by a physician 
visitor from France - Fernand Lamaze - and he in 1951 introduced 
it to and modified it for the Western World. In 1960 the American 
Society for Psycho-prophylaxis in Obstetrics was founded and con- 
tinues to expand its scope across the country with affiliated organi- 
zations which share the aim of family-centered childbirth educa- 

Childbirth is a normal process. It is a challenging experience, 
however, requiring considerable effort — physical, mental and emo- 
tional. The unprepared mother who attempts labor without seda- 
tion and anesthesia is likely to experience frustration and pain. To 
accomplish a conscious delivery in the best way, the mother should 
know what to expect during each phase of childbirth, how to 
cooperate with the normal functioning of her body and how to re- 
spond to the guidance of her professional attendants. 

Psycho-profDhylactic preparation has a double objective: 

1. By DECONDITIONING, the mother is freed of any fears and mis- 
conceptions she may harbor about childbirth. Through education, 
expectant parents are prepared to meet the experience of labor and 
delivery with knowledge and understanding. 

2. By CONDITIONING, the mother is trained to help her labor 
through consciously controlled activity. She develops "conditioned 
responses" through exercises and a specific pattern of activity 
learned during pregnancy. Using these highly developed breathing 

and relaxation techniques, taught so they will function automati- 
cally during each stage of childbirth, the mother is able to partici- 
pate cooperatively and with dignity in the birth of her child. 

The advantages of the method are apparent before, during, and 
after childbirth. Having mastered the Lamaze technique within a 
period of 2 months, the prepared woman approaches her labor re- 
laxed, unafraid, and able to cooperate fully with her physician. She 
has learned what to expect at each phase of labor and delivery and 
how to af)ply the breathing and relaxation techniques effectively. 
With analgesia and anesthetic eliminated or kept at a minimum, her 
delivery will be safer for herself ancJ for her baby. Her recovery after 
childbirth will be more rapid and comfortable. 

Fathers are urged to attend the training classes with the mothers 
as their role is an active and important one. During the training, a 
father can assist the mother in learning and practicing the exercises 
and breathing techniques. A trained father, during labor, can help 
the mother to a[)f)lv the method correctly and offer invaluable 
moral su()|)ort It he so desires and it the hospital and physician 
permit, he can dls(j be |)r('s(MTt at the delivery. BcDth parents share a 
sense of accomplishment, having ()repared together and actively 
participated in their baby's birth. 

Training is given during the last twcj months of pregnancy. During 
the six weekly sessions, lectures ccjver the anatomy and physiology 
of pregnancy and childbirth. Instruction is given in neuro-muscular 
relaxation exercises, efficient management of the body, and applica- 
tion of breathing technicjues during childbirth. Proper posture, 
avoidance of stress, and body-conditioning exercises are taught to 
ensure comfort during pregnancy and to |)re[)are the muscles used 
in childbirth. Discussion of the role ot medicalujn and anesthesia 

and modern obstetrical techniques in prepared childbirth aid the 
parents in an objective understanding of the aims and goals of psy- 
cho-prophylactic preparation. 

Many parents today are not ccjntent with a passive role in child- 
bearing. Women not only want to be awake when their babies are 
born, but they want to fully participate with their mates in bringing 
their children into the world. Lamaze preparation enables the par- 
ents to take part in childbirth consciously and effectively. 

There is an abundance of literature available in the community. 
Some libraries have pertinent volumes. The La Leche League has 
much information regarding breastfeeding and is comprised of 
women who are strong advocates of breastfeeding, natural child- 
birth and sound nutrition. Many of the obstetric clinics have some 
program of classes in natural childbirth methods. And there are 
many concerned and experienced individuals within the community 
who are eager to share their knowledge and experience to advance 
the emphasis on prepared childbirth. Additional information can be 
obtained from the American Society for Psycho-prophylaxis in Ob- 
stetrics, Inc., 7 West 96th Street, New York, N.Y. 10025. 

Through cooperation of the profession, the community, and inter- 
ested individuals, an ideal program of childbirth preparation can be 
achieved. Both the responsibility and |oy tor the success of such a 
program lies within us all; laymen and professionals. Only through 
inquiry can we seek answers to our questions. We should all strive 
to increase our knowledge and effectiveness in our own areas of 
competence. In this way we not only make the childbirth experi- 
ence more rewarding and fulfilling, we also open whole new areas 
of interest and coojieration which will enable us all to make this 
world a much happier, healthier place to inhabit. 





While pregnant I found myself pondering 
anew the mystery of creation and the meaning 
of life. Experiencing the full potential of wo- 
manhood, feeling unique in the universal ex- 
perience of the miracle of creation, oblivious 
of all external realities yet probing for the 
oneness of mind and body within them. Hav- 
ing children is one of the most creative things 
that people can share. More than the manifes- 
tation of bio-chemical effect, it is the natural 
expression and outcome of mutually and deep- 
ly shared love and commitment. 

Confident with knowledge and fact, central- 
ized within deep waves of concentration and 
awareness, my being embraced and responded 
to the intense energy of the birth process. To- 
tal and infinite energies compacted, harmo- 
niously, rhythmically evolving an entire entity 
about to emerge into a singular embodiment. 

I felt my whole body and mind seized with a 
phenomena to expel — to bring forth new life. 
Pushing and pushing and pushing with enor- 
mous strength and joyous exhileration the 
child came into this world as explosively as a 
raging sea and as gently, caressingly as the 
breeze. Breath for breath the cry for life. The 
child is a son. And I held him in my eyes were 
tears. A cycle is complete and begun at once. 
All in a moment I float in whole and new 
states of natural and mental well-being. A 
woman becomes a mother, a man a father, 
together parents — a family. A microcosm of 
humanity. All and at once an awareness of 
responsibility and unity not only to and with 
one self and others but to all of mankind. I am 
proud. I am joyously happy. I am one — in the 
family of man. Every day is a new beginning. 


. wm i 




(Dan Willis left Duke in the fall of this year. Since then he has 
spent 50 days in a Zen temple. The following is taken from 
material he sent us.) 

I first heard about Hui-neng Zen Temple in a newspaper 
called "Homecoming" published and put out by the Pennsyl- 
vania Yoga Society. At the time it didn't attract me at all, but 
the newspaper was thrown on my desk at home amongst 
other articles of the same nature. By the middle fall of 1971, I 
found myself becoming more and more interested in Zen and 
Buddhism in general. Further reading about the subject by way 
of Thomas Merton and D. T. Suzuki had convinced me that 
Zen Buddhism was something worth tasting; a more intellec- 
tual and scholarly understanding of Zen was not enough to 
satisfy me. I remembered the newspaper article and quickly 
obtained it. Reverend Song-Ry5ng Hearn, the Abbot in charge 
of Hui-neng Temple, corresponded with me through two let- 
ters and expressed his enthusiasm to have a new student. 

Hui-neng Temple is located about six miles south of Easton, 
Penn., on the end of a wooded ridge amidst many dairy farms, 
and near the Delaware River. The temple rests on 30 acres of 
land leased from an American architect, now in Bangkok, who 
has an interest in Buddhism. Some of the land is cleared, upon 
which there are two vegetable gardens. There are three build- 
ings on the land. The main building contains the zendo and 
sleeping quarters for single male students. The second one is a 
shed, which will be developed into a Buddha Hall for chanting 
and ceremonies. The third houses the Oharma school, dining- 
room and kitchen, with quarters for female students above. 

I arrived at Hui-neng Temple on January 6, 1972. I really 
didn't know what to expect from Zen or what the essence of 
Buddhism consisted of. But I was ready to accept anything 
that came along. Lunch was the first thing that did, and it 
proved to be a surprise. Silence is observed at meals, and for a 
Westerner this is a bit extreme. Meals are finished in about 10 
minutes and food is gobbled down as fast as possible. The rea- 
son for this is that one eats for body nourishment only and 
any thinking during meals as to what tastes good and what 
could be improved next time is only a product of the mind's 
duality, and this is what Zen aims at eliminating. 

Work usually consisted of chopping firewood, or maintain- 
ing the interior of the buildings. When it snowed, paths had to 
be cleared between building and out to the roadway. The Zen 
Buddhists have a great love and respect for manual work and 
don't attach to it the label "inferior" as we do in the Occident: 
work is an expression of being. The love of manual work 
shows the influence of the Chinese culture on Buddhism. The 
Chinese have always been close to the earth, and have tilled 
the soil for thousands of years, living as part of the cycle of 
Mother Nature. 

Hui-neng Zen Temple practices a Korean form of Zen. Dur- 
ing the winter months in Korea it is traditional to observe a 
100-day period of intensive meditation, called a sesshin. Dur- 
ing a sesshin one's primary objective is to obtain satori by fo- 
cusing all energies within oneself. Satori is the essence of Zen 


experience. Zen refuses to be defined or limited into one cate- 
gory such as philosophy, religion, or psychology. What Zen 
Buddhists emphasize is that reality lies in the here and now of 
every situation, and not somewhere else in a philosophical 
system, in one's dreams or hopes or expectations of the future. 
Man is small compared to the infinities of the universe, and to 
try to control the oncoming events is futile. One has to accept 
whole-heartedly what comes along, and only in doing this will 
the mind be calmed. All Life is Zen; it is all complete and per- 
fect, but the human mind refuses to look at things as they 
really are. 

(After Dan left the temple, he sent Rev. Hearn a list of ques- 
tions to answer, in order that we could more accurately pre- 
sent Zen thought.) 

Q. What is the reason for the Zen Buddhist custom of shaving 
the heads of monks^ 

A. In all schools of Buddhism, the hair is shaved off at the 
ordination ceremony of monks and nuns. It symbolizes the 
cutting off of ego and egocentric will, and the radically 
changed life being entered upon by the novice. The shaving of 
the hccu) seems to be an Archetypal symbol all over the world. 
Gr()U[)s whi( h surrender their will — whether voluntarily or 
otherwise - to a Rule, such as convicts, soldiers, and monks, 
save their heads to signify forfeiture of power. (In Asia stu- 
dents often do so also.) This is illustrated in the Biblical story 
of Samson. Poets, Bohemians, the 'hip,' etc., who emphasize 
'self-expression' let their hair grow long, and frequently beards 

Q. Why is Zen called the 'Direct Method' for obtaining 

A. Zen is called 'Direct Pointing' because it does )ust that. It 
points at the creator of Delusion, the mind. Through steady 
Zazen, we see the truth of the Buddha's assertion, based on 
his Enlightenment, that the so-called 'self is a flow of ever- 
changing process, not any fixed entity that can be grasped or 
held separate from the whole universe. We and 'our' world are 
not two. Other methods, the so-called gradual processes, start 
with a tacit recognition of a separate personality with aspirations 
to reach union with the Divine. Hence Yoga — from a root 
meaning 'to yoke.' Zen denies any such separation. No method 
is as direct, save only the Advaita Vedanta of Ramana Maharshi, 
which is very close, with its question, 'Who am I?' 

Q. Is it possible for a layman to achieve Satori^ 

A. Yes, definitely, many have. Their essential nature is no 
different. Many famous laymen were enlightened. These in- 
cluded Emperors, soldiers, craftsmen, artists, poets, and many 
others. They were able to express their Zen in their daily life. 
Even today there are lay-Roshi in Japan with large followings. 
They come of both Rinzai and Soto traditions. Because of the 
distractions of everyday life, the lay student must strive hard. 
When he does attain, his Realization is often great. Layman 
P'ang of T'ang Dynasty China was famous in the annals of 
Zen. He and his daughter were both thoroughly enlightened 
and led lives of freedom. His famous saying, 'Snowflakes fall- 
ing - falling, each in its proper place' spoken when being es- 
corted during a snowfall to the gate of a monastery where his 
Master, the famous Matsu was, is well known even today. He sank 
his possessions in the river on attaining enlightenment, and he 
and his daughter lived by weaving bamboo baskets. 

Q. Why is a Zen Temple or any religious center conducive 
to attaining Satori, or realization of our Original Facei' 

A. Because such centers are dedicated to a single purpose, 
that of fnlightenment. Even work performed there is part of a 
totcil pr.K Ik e, iiol t^edred to profit, or seen as mere functional- 
isni WIkm ilie student can see the humblest or dirtiest task as 
proloundly holy, then he or she is seeing with open eyes. The 

task itself is the realization, not a means to something else. It 
is the Buddha working endlessly, without aim or hope of re- 
ward. The quiet life of meditation, chanting, and selfless work 
forms a unity. The usual escape routes — TV, newspapers, 
films, sports, etc., and the petty luxuries demanded by ego, are 
absent. The student lives simply and with a single eye. And as 
the 'I' grows ever less, the cosmos grows ever more. The rest- 
less mind and wagging tongue are discouraged, and the stu- 
dent learns to turn inward and learn from the Intuition which 
rises in silence. More and more he becomes a whole person. 

Q. What is the purpose of a /Coanr* 

A. It is an ego-chisel — a tool to cut down the dualistic ego 
illusion. It reveals to the proud intellect its fallibility. The 
dualistic mind cannot reveal the truth about reality, merely 
ideas 'about' it. When it has been signally defeated, Bodhi - 
Supreme Wisdom — rises and the answer, for there are an- 
swers, comes. One must be on the same level as the formula- 
tor of the question to answer the Koan. The Master knows 
immediately if the student has attained Realization. 

Q. What does the Buddhist bowing with folded hands signi- 
fy, when used instead of the western handshake^ 

A. It is an ancient Eastern greeting, common in India even 
today. To Buddhists it signifies recognition of the latent Bud- 
dha-nature in each person, even if they are a 'sleeping Bud- 
dha' and thus not aware of it. It is a mark of respect and def- 
erence. The Western handshake is derived from an origin in 
suspicion. It is the gesture of seizing the right, or sword-hand, 
of the person met, to render each other mutually less dan- 
gerous. There is a vast difference. 

Q. Why is fasting not encouraged in Buddhist temples^ 

A. Because the Buddha condemned it as ineffectual, having 
practised starvation for some six years in the Terai jungles 
prior to attaining Enlightenment. It was only when he began 
again to accept nourishment that he had the strength to break 
through. Mortification of the body is not the way, and no true 
Buddhist Master will sanction it. The decrease in blood sugar 
produces hallucination, projections from the unconscious, and 
a 'mind-trip' which has nothing to do with Mindfulness and 
clear perception. Buddhism is the 'Middle Way' and discour- 
ages fierce austerities. 
Please Explain the Significance of the Following: 

Candlelight: Light, symbolic of the Inner Light of Realiza- 
tion, is one of the offerings considered traditionally acceptable 
on Buddha Shrines ('Bui-Dan,' Korean, or 'Butsudan,' Ja- 
panese.) Candles are the usual form, though electric lights are 
used also in some places. 

Mirror on the Wall: This is to remind us of two things. First, 
that when we enter a Son-Dang (Zendo), or meditation-hall, 
we meet none other than our True Selves. Second, to remind 
the meditator of the Great Mirror Mind of the Enlightened 
One, who sees all and rejects nothing. The mirror of con- 
sciousness is not 'stained' by clinging or rejection, but reveals 
all that comes before it. So should our mind be. 

Bowl of Water at the Buddha Statue: This, like light, incense, 
fruit, flowers, rice, sweets, etc., (but never flesh or killed 
foods), is one of the appropriate offerings on a Buddhist shrine 
or altar. It stands for Purity of Consciousness and the Great 
Mirror Mind. Water is also revered for its humility (it naturally 
gravitates to the bottom), its flexibility (it takes the form of 
any vessel it enters — a lesson for humans), and its quiet 
power (it is the most potent universal liquid solvent known.) 

Well, Dan, that's it. Hope the answers help somewhat. You 
can edit or abbreviate the answers to suit your purpose. 
In Metta, 
Rev. Song-Ryong Hearn 








The young boy engaged in a natural 
function at left is the same you saw 
being born a few pages back. His 
name is Eli Kramer. Below he is 
shown with his father, Richard; 
photograph by Toni, his mother. 


"il^M JiIi^^bHKH 












by Steve Emerson 

1. Let us say there were five of us. My two roommates, one of the three from next door, and the sole inhabitant 
of the fourth floor. We'd just gotten back from, say, drinking, at, say, the U.G. In fact there's nothing else to 
say, for if we went out, it was to drink, and if we drank, it was at the U.G. There was a double bunk and an old 
relic that passed for a single bed - it was that delightful species of bed the springs of which are supported only 
at the ends, scj that it hangs in the middle. It was on that that one of the spectators was seated, the other in the 
"easy chair." One player sat on the top bunk, another on the lower bunk, and the third shared the single bed 
with the s[3ectator. There was a trunk beneath the bed, so that the mattress could sink only a foot and a half or 
so. In [profile it looked like a banana. In fact there were other bananas in the room — some in the 
$40-a-semester refrigerator, and one, more interesting, on the cover of a Velvet Underground album. Remem- 
ber that album? Warhol had designed it, and the banana on the cover was removable. Its removal revealed a 
second banana, but it stopped there. Of, for example, one's date's clothing (for there were those who had 
dates), there was more to remove, and removal was less easily, and more tediously, accomplished. 

But, to return, the game. Wasketball. The ball, a crumpled paper, was tossed from lower bunk man to single 
bed man, who hit it up to upper bunk man, who hit it toward the waste basket, nestled between legs of single 
bed man. If it was going to miss, single bed man could hit it in. As I learned in sociology class, the demands 
imposed on single bed man, high indeed, were outweighed by the rewards he collected. Wasketball was, then, 
a good activity for at least single bed man to pursue. It was especially good because it provided a function for 
the wastebasket, so that it, unlike those in the dorm's 40 remaining rooms, was neither crushed nor thrown out 
the window. And if you won, although I can't remember how you won, but if you did, you got a banana. 

2. I kept the dope deep back in the closet, underneath the stairs to the upper half of the duplex. The smell 
deep in that closet was the musk that characterizes all houses like that one. On Onslow Street, it was. A won- 
derful old hous(\ It had sunk unevenly into the ground, and the outside walls were covered with dirt, so that 
there was a kind of intimacy between the house and the ground on which it was situated. Impossible to con- 
ceive of one without the other. There was an old tire in the yard, we had put it there, a truck tire. On the front 
door was written, "Come on in now Muddy/My old man just left/He just now left". 

The dope was smoked often. Apples, or peanut butter, or whatever was around, were eaten. Love permeated 
the house, I moved into the big room. And lay there, on the bed, or on the couch, with a woman. I moved the 
record player in. Dope was no longer smoked. Acid moved in. I couldn't do my homework anymore. What was 
done was never work, at home. It got cold. So we had to lie in bed all day. Covered with unzipped sleeping 
bags. The record player was next to the bed. People were quiet then, and music loud. Now there is no music, 
and people are loud. The quiet-speaking, slow-talking, gentle-moving freak is gone. I'm gonna move/way out 
on the outskirts/of town. 

3. I did. And shut the door. Of the room. It had a mattress on the floor, and a big plant in a bigger [Dot, called 
Quinn. It died. I walked long distances, to school, to Hardee's, to the store. And I got up, sometimes, early. To 
work. On a magazine. Or to study. And left the woman sleeping, childlike. It was a little room in a big house. 
Very hot. For the door was shut. I studied, if I wanted. Which was often. Not studied, no, but read what hap- 
pened to be the text books. Some of them. Particularly a big red-leather-bound, gold-edged, library volume. As 
time passed I left the room more often. I found new friends. I cooked on the stove, or in the oven, and drank 
beer, with the friends. Do[3e was no longer consumed. Except when the one-eyed poet and the toothless 
madman came to town. And much was consumed, and never replaced. The friends came more often, in their 
green bus. Or we went there. And stayed, once. 

4. The present, now. All year in this house. A different house, a different year. Convenient for reference. Bad 
for the soul. Work came more seriously. Anxiety, and the old bitch, the Duchess, whose gothic towers cannot 
even be imagined from here, started the fight up and then tied me tighter. Just when I thought we were 
friends. But the Duchess is dying now, for me. In fact, I'm not even here. I just stick around for my friends, hia. 

21 1 




There is no art whose standards of achievement are more 
nebulous, more vague and undefined, than photography. In 
fact, it IS an inaccuracy to speak of "achievement" at all, in a 
critical sense. While technical mastery may be attained, the 
process that leads to visual communication between photogra- 
pher and audience, or photographer and self, resists such a 
goal-oriented word. 

In a photograph we have the material record of the mind 
interacting, in conflict or harmony, with what it perceives. A 
human mind has confronted an object, a place, an environ- 
ment significant to itself; has chosen one particular image as 
representation. Of course the image must be a representation 
of that mind, as well. Not only of the mind, but of the essen- 
tial nature, the ground of being, which in this medium cannot 
stay hidden for too long. It may take a prolonged inner strug- 
gle to reach down into oneself for the image: thus the spiritual 
nature of the art becomes apparent. All thought, all mind con- 
centrated in the one fatal instant; every sense straining with- 
out strain, the alertness of immersion in here, in now. It is Zen 
without the Buddha. 

The following sequence has been selected from work done 
by photographers in this area. Sequencing is the process of 
finding or organizing organic relationships between the photo- 
graphs. It requires laying them out on the floor, a hundred of 
them, two hundred, and looking. One looks for months, day, 
night, in every state of mind, including every bystander, every 
casual passer-by, sucking them in. There were three equally 
beautiful images discarded for every one you see here; how 
could such activity be anything but the subtlest, most exqui- 
site, most refined torture? 






















^i^^^^BHBBB^^^ >v.j-'\-; 



'. .^ ^^'^*^ 


^ -^^ 


The preceding photographs were taken by: 

214 Tina Kaupe 

215 Ned Earle 

216 Harold Frank 

217 Eduardo Nunez 

218 Richard Miller 

219 Eduardo Nunez 

220 Bob Hewgley 

221 Barb Hedman 

222 Dave Darling 

223 Cathy Murphy 

224 Ned Earle 

225 Cathy Murphy 

226 Eduardo Nunez 

227 Dave Darling 

228 Bob Hewgley 

229 Bob Hewgley 

230 Eduardo Nunez 

231 Tina Kaupe 

232 Bob Hewgley 


^ of the best, one v 
other, that we have been able to find on this camfnjs The 
poster is not strictly graffiti, granted, but is certainly gross 
enough to be proudly included in any American yearbook.) 

From a bus heading inio West I. -X I saw the poem of Los 
Angeles, which is a Ijcaulilul wdinan at the wheel of an 
avocado Porsche, crying and bicjwing her nose, with Klee- 
nex balled up between her thighs. 

Madam Sosostris 
Mystic Backrubs 
"the medium is the massage" 

I never met a dog I couldn't kick. 

God flows his own. 

How (an two not seek the not-twi 

E = '/2 MU^ - 2ef_ 

E = 2?-g MZ^ e^ 

n2 h2 
and there 



ifficiently large value for 2, and a 

sufficiently small value for 3. 

"There would be something amiss afoot." 

There is no need to seek truth, only stop having views. 

- Seng T'san 
We now have all the answers; what we need are the qu( 

Tomorrow r 

r happen' 

all the same fucking day, 


I |Ke' 

sey |Art| 

f you do It right. 

The Wages of Sin are not frozen! 

B.S. Bullshit 

M.S. More Shit 

Phd. Plied higher and deeper. 

- ). loplin 

Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder. 

What do you think of Western Civilizationf' - I think 

would be a good idea 

Where is history;' 

You can't find anything that no one believes. 

The hen is onlv the egg's way of making another egg. 

- S. Butler 
Hugh lorgasm 

How dare you have fun when Christ died on the cross 
you! Did He have fun^ 




Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the pro- 
cess he does not become a monster himself And when 
you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you. 

- Nietsche 
Sex teaches work. 
The man who is laughing has not yet heard the terrible 

Necrophilia is a dead-end tri|) 

Do the Dead return?' 

- Not if they're smart 

Verily, verily, verily, vc 
- G. Stem 

rily, verily, verily, veri 

X = b4i4Q ^ QT 

If at first you don't try 

, succeed, succeed age 

Kundalini is the humar 

body's answer to the 5 

1 think, therefore 1 an 

; 1 think. 


First, the title. Accept the triple entendre, and pick your own mean- 
ing. Any trip is a personal thing. Group trips - including political 
campaigns, revolutions, etc. - are a phony, if-this-is-Tuesday-this- 
must-be-Belgium construct of group imaginations: the Spanish In- 
quisition, the Nazi death camps, and That War. A personal trip is, 
obviously, human. The particular personal trip herein under examina- 
tion is a Duke trip, my own actually. I seem to think I had a trip 
here, a succession of events in movement from within (physical/ 
cerebral/spiritual), something I took (in the solar, plexus, in the heart) 
of parts variously colored, forming a set of passionate tableaux — all 
memories now after birth into the real world. 

(Informatively) About a trip; Basically all that happens, in a not 
particularly scientific way, is an adrenalin reaction in drag, with all 
the usual features of the real thing - hallucinations, revelations, 
over-excitement. The non-drug adrenalin reaction (real, not mimic) 
has been a fairly crucial thing over the centuries — it's possibly how 
and why mystics had visions. Harold Parker, a Duke professor on 
one of the heavier history trips of all time, emphasizes the impor- 
tance of adrenalin hallucinations in the development of William 
James' thought. Parker has also suggested that, after the expansion 
of human consciousness provided by Joyce's Finnegan's Wake, only 
drugs could carry the human race further. 

(Rhetorically) Is there a Duke Trip? I'll speak basely of it. Do you 
think the proudly erect Chapel, the modestly tumescent Baldwin 
Auditorium, are normal physical events in the eyesight of billions? It 
must make a difference to live in an academic Disneyland, overseen 
by a pigeon-toed tobacconist vyith face lively as one of his cigar- 
store Indians, and his old man slouched in a cloud of bus exhaust. 

On this subjective Duke trip, those physical phenomena are 
only the backdrop to the drama, painted on a pleasantly frequent 
blue sky. Get the picture of this trip as electro-encephalogram 
etched by adrenalin's memory, the flashes of self-recognition 
through the short years. 

The poem, an 


method of travel: 

Duke Trip 

I have finally become a dream: 
my own, summer before this, 
when lost in delicate machismo 
I won fantastic merit badges 
and was alone; 

I have shot the whole movie, 
wear my badges on the head 
and dread always waking. 
Ed Harrison 


When the bellman pulled his ropes and chimed on dusk, Quaver Pale, who is Quaver Pale merely for the pre- 
servation of his anonymity, trod from the engineering buildingtowards his dorm for the last time, sacred time, 
due to his dismissal from Duke University, the college of his choice. The dean, cushioned in his bulky leather 
chair, had said, "The minimum requirement or quota is six credits; you only get five. I am afraid you will not 
be with us next semester, Mr. Pale," and then he had leaned back as if he no longer had to strain himself. 
That night, all night, January 28th, 1969, Quaver packed his goods, his clothes, his work, stripping off the collage of miscellany that 
had saved his sanity from the sickly green walls, laying into a bottle of Mateus until his nerves poured out a creamy sensation of age, 
of mellownessness, and listening to Judy Collins, Who Knows Where The Time Goes. Reflecting on the past semester he saw it as a 
love affair with sadness, acquired as the dimensions of his world grew smaller while the world itself grew more and more complex, 
fascinating, intense. Gradually in his reflection, a surge of compassion stole over him like a tidal wave on his emotional ocean from 
coast to coast to coast; compassion for himself and all the other nameless failures that might exist, compassion for everyone as a 
whole more than in general. A kind of explosion detonated itself, bursting in slow motion; his tight islands of responsibility disap- 
peared like mirages and he felt himself releasing his reach for them. He understood his being as something more sure and constant 
than free, as if he had dropped a hit of the elixir, has transformed the dead winter with the spring breeze of his own breathing. 
Intoxicating!* But then he was intoxicated. He had gotten off on failure and failure is divine. 

Quaver wished to write his feelings down, but his brothers, victims bound by parallel university circumstances and who had fortu- 
nately passed the narrow semester, shuffled and glided in from the fraternity rush parties, evenly distributing the life of the party 
among themselves so that no one would feel slighted. They took to Quaver giving him his share of participation, yet he did not feel 
the sense of grief they threw to him like a lifeline, he felt he was on dry land and lurked over the absurdity he interpreted into their 
action. Each of them took it for granted that Quaver was saddened by his fate and together they threw him a kind of wake. Quaver's 
friend Lindy merely smiled without anxiety or concern and said, "Well, it's been nice knowing ya," but most of the others tried to 
sympathize with him, trying to make him feel his failure was not the end of the world and succeeding in stimulating him to envision 
world's end. Quaver soon realized that his disposition was obscuring the situation, fogging it up with portentions, but when he tried 
defrosting his emotions he came out of seclusion in a luke-warm mood, plain tired. After all, the future was nothing, resembling the 
past. He had rarely studied, stayed awake nineteen out of twenty-four hours, wasting himself occasionally on hard booze, estranged 
himself writing long epic poems. He had flunked out of the past; what could his future be? He had done with his respective position, 
his relativity, distance and orientation, the future could be anything it wanted now. Anyway, his brothers lost him before the night 
was out and Quaver had a few hours to write. 

In the early morning, his house master, whose round face knitted into folds and wrinkles of concern somewhat like a pickled 
orange, advised him on his future, how he could return in a year if he wished. "I hope you don't take this too hard," he stammered, 
twitching his head back and aside between the words. 
"Oh I don't," said Quaver. 

"Do you think you'll continue with college at all?" 
"Who knows?" 

"Well make some plan . . . have some goal . . ." 
"Yeah, well, I'm thinking." 
"Good luck to you." 

The man ducked out the door, though he was a near five and a 
half feet in height. Quaver felt awkward, impolite, yet serene about 
his treatment of the noble house master, who had engaged a duty in 
confronting Quaver in his departure, who had done Quaver a service, 
unnecessary but performed as soon as the situation for its perfor- 
mance arises. 

The dawn came on without the centralization of the sun, with light 
in the mist, fizzing and thick. Quaver labored down to the Great 
Hall to stoke up on breakfast eggs, bacon, and sugar frosted cereals, 
thinking about the spirit of the place: the slate path glazed with 
moisture, the silhouettes of trees and the magical gothic architec- 
ture grey in the luminous mist. In tennis shoes he avoided broken 
glass, feeling lithe, weightless while his drawn eyes discerned stream- 
ers of toilet paper on the soggy ground and other matters of fact. 
The spirit of the place was restoration: in the cold he felt a wound 
that made him strong, clean, and healed up. The cathedral organ 
filled his mind involuntarily jumping the border of his unknown mem- 
ory; the chords were like embers, long from growing cold. Quaver 
identified himself as an effect, a result of sensations intrinsic in his 
basic situation, basic as the solemn subtle curvature of the land, the 
lower Appalachians like hips, like a green sea amidst which was the 
campus: once removed from New England and twice from Cambridge, 
a descendant of a long sourceless line, polished with the stain of 
the cigarette history, cultured and poised like Humphrey Bogart in 

the ram and Loren Bacall staring out from behind a corner table. There are corners enough for everyone during the rains, the strings 
of mercy, the gentleness, the kind upperhandedness: spiritual arrogance, Eruditio et Religio, the sound of being overcome. The corn- 
ered comfort, the withdrawn intensity, rubbed in like a salve, held one by the balls, so that one wanted to hypnotize the touch of 
the masseuse. Quaver thought of Bob Dylan's "It takes a lot to laugh, it takes a train to cry," and thought it was created for his 
lover, sadness, as it was another manifestation of the healing hurt. Anxiety begins definitively, even when it is finally proportional 
to nothing, but then it achieves a kind of immortality, which is but an awareness of limitlessness; there is orgasm, there is numb- 
ness, whatever one's choice. Quaver took the experience into himself neither personally nor impersonally, understanding that thought 
was image, that perception was impression. What did he know anyway? What could he know about the Indians who spelled the 
spirit of the country or about its existence before human experience? He couldn't know the history, couldn't master the time or trace 
an image to its source. Quaver was normal; he dealt with the truth available. 

Nevertheless, in the embrace of this spirit ot the place for any feeling for the instantaneous, anyone will knowingly or unknowing- 
ly, understand at all, simply as it happens. Quaver sensed that if he lived and learned here four years, it would be a vanishing point, 
the dimensions would zoom him into the pufferal, would screw him into meaninglessness. Duke was an ordinary surprise to Quaver, 


expectant as a birthday to an old man, it was a destination, a dwelling, a set-up for life, a success a-la-mode. Quaver, in kee[)ing with 
his word to himself, needed only anyplace to keep his word for others; he couldn't keep his word in a construction, though the word 
Itself was but an appearance. "No thanks, none for me," he said as his final sentiment to Duke, and it was the normal sentiment that 
everyone had, in a gutted fashion, like laughing at a hard-on, turning off to chocolate sundaes. Quaver laughed at his brothers, be- 
cause they, like he, had time on their hands; "out, out, damn time!" and the laugh of himself became a clown, sometimes performed 
and indicative, other times lucid to the transparency of innocent, deliberate gesture, which was a seduction, and often times simply a 
memory, a face, different as opposed to indifferent, but uni-various regardless. He dove into no one, not being able to see the water 
for the pool; he loved others' images, their roles with his own, for when he looked into the rippling, wind-touched, glistening water 
he saw reflectance, he saw his brothers floating in puddles. He laughed. 

Alone at breakfast he tried to think up the dreams of everyone sleeping it oti' down at dorms and he blushingly became aware that 
all his nerves were taut with the will for reception, waiting for the voice of thf speech running through their dreams to break the sur- 
face of sleep consciousness. The nerves tingled in their stretch, the reception laughed, the voices rose to the threshold of hearing and 
shattered in him, like the metallic spit of a dynamite cap amplified to a sonic boom because the voice existed inside, a fragmentation 
of his imagination. No one at the dorms would talk in their sound sleeps. He enjoyed their silence, the expanse of it, and he seemed 
to gaze with admiration at the air. He cumulated his feelings as simple amazement, wonder, that didn't fall in perplexity, dumb or 
confoundedness. He doffed his self like a spiritual Marie-Antoinette to humanity, saying, "Let them dream love;" to himself. There 
was ncj sense in telling it to anyone else. 

Quaver called the limosine and went up to the dorm for his bags and back with them. He watched the Carolina country all the 
way to the airport but he didn't feel at all gone. He watched the planes land on the silver strip across the lush dew-grass plateau, 
thinking ot a PP&M rendition of In The Early Morning Rain, until his own Eastern landed of its own unearthly good. In the air Quaver 
felt transcient, in his tjwn motion, looking within solid white clouds as if he too was a brain, perhaps in his own image. He drank 
cufjs oi coffee, smoked cigarrettes, worked over pcjems. 

He c(jntinued work through a stay between (jianes in Washington D.C. and the first of the flight to St. Louis when a woman sat 
next to him and asked him what he was going to do when the plane landed. Quaver hesitated, deliberating for the sake of delibera- 
tion, and said, "I plan to get a ride and head hcjme." 

"Oh, I see, you must live in Evansville." 

"Evansville!" Nope. I live in Saint Louis." 

"We aren't lancJing in Saint Louis." 

"That's wrong." 

"No. The captain came on awhile ago and said Saint Louis was fogged in; we're landing in Evansville and there's no guarantee the 
airline can get anyone transportaticjn at this hour. We may have to s|)end the night and I was curious as to what you're going to do 
when we lanci," 

It was one a.m. (Quaver leaned back from the fold-down table and relaxed. His face looked plain, effortless. "I can't say what I'm 
going to do. I might find a place to stay. I might see if I can get to a bus station if any busses are going. I might hang around the air- 


port. There's a lot I might do, but I can't tell yet." 

She nodded her head in recognition, slow and resultless, then l(;oked at him straight on. 

"What are you writing^' 

"A poem." 

"May I readi"' 


you are never push a living 

that's already falling 

friends, you are letting me feather in 

the wind wishing; 


and we are friends at that, 

that can genuine grin, 

can cuddle crush 

the silent pillow. 
I have smelled you for cleanliness, 
for myself, I have sprayed. 
In the night 
who am I that matters, 

"After the first period it's on a slant that falls otT," Maria said curiously. 

"It's always slanting; the lirsi siari is a false uj:), the last is a surreal confession. I wanted it to 
link it's like to meet [jeoph"' " 
"An adventure," she said, mildness clouding a secret flare. 
"You're a pioneer woman!*" 
"Only in unexplored territory." 
"What if who you meet is a series of affectations?" 

leave people blinking. What do you 


"I can't let them be." 

"Are they?" 

"Not that I ever leave off trying to make it happen." 



"Well, what the fuck . . ." 

Quaver reacted knowing she felt their conversation a game, a game of import and of extrasensory stimulation as the stakes rose. 
Forty more minutes passed in the air before Evansville and the sky was the limit. Quaver assumed her as a kind of sister-lover, and he 
was her incestuous spiritual mate for as long as the migration. She lived through Washington University in St. Louis as he, later, was 
to live through it, and complained about the dehumanizing essense of the behaviorist school of psychological theory which domi- 
nated the university's department. She was returning to it now, having spent the last week away in D.C. the n,ation's generator, taking 
her grace away from the graceless manipulators of being. She too felt free and released, seeing through the fish-eye of failure, and 
was returning one last experience of the place, for a kind of kiss-off. She read more of his poems and grew closer and closer to him, 
feeling the same kind of filial love that moved him to talk to her in his own style, pre-suming associations and coming on like 
for-knowledge. With all the chaos of self involvement he expressed his relationship with ambiguity in writing poetry, how it was sat- 
urated with the spirit of the author, full, ripe through to the tonals and rhythms of broken emotion language, split into myriads of 
meanings, each cooled and made dormant by mood. 

"Answer me this," Quaver said, "Did you ever think that you only see people who look as if they're conscious of being watched?" 

She laughed with abandon then suddenly inhaled suprised, "Wow . . ." she said, "That question's so hypnotic. How used to being 
watched I am . . . wow." 

"I'll not look if you please." 

"No, look." 

Quaver felt the situation pass the threshold of being emphatic. "Well, for openers," he said, "what's your name? No wait a minute; 
I'll make up a name for you." 

She smiled with her lips tightly closed. 

"How about Maria, Maria?" 

"I can answer to that." 

Though airplanes land Quaver and Maria didn't have to get down to any practical business as the airline so happened to come 
unto a bus. The businessmen complained, invoking the sincerest of sympathies from the stewardesses, who, nevertheless, failed to 
appease the businessmen's discontent as their alertness of the job gave them away as efficient. During the brief transition in the air- 
port Quaver phoned his parents who applied to sadness and attempted to encourage him to return home without feeling unduly de- 
stroyed. "Everyone's human," his father had said. Quaver and Maria went to the back of the bus, and there sat a serene man in an 
open white collar, faded tan sport jacket, and light brown trousers stained of coffee above the right knee, gazing out the window 
without care but collected, containing what he saw. The muse. Quaver thought. 

Somewhat later, rolling down the highway, the rattling bus in the rain and the dark, smoking cigarettes and telling the story and 
motivations behind their travelling. Quaver came to the end of his own tale and the businessman's eyes blinked wide an instant and 
then focused on him. "I've been with the same advertising firm for fourteen years; I quit yesterday." Quaver didn't expect the man 
to stop talking and before he could respond the man went on. "I've got a wife and five kids of my own. You kids . . ." he hesitated, 
then turned to Quaver, "You I can understand. You leave your home. Sir Galahad in a gleaming winged steed, out to do the ultimate 
deed, you leave everyone you've ever known, and the walls are high and strong and the moat is wide, and the prisoner within waits; 
you come to the end of your road and it's not far enough so you fall, wasted by the dragon, and you return home to what you know, 
to a carefully surprised virgin willing to have you as you were, as you still are, but then, though you're a failure at it, you're still a 
slayer of dragons. I guess the dragon is forever a prisoner, and better so than provoked to escape by a foolish, impotent challenger, and 
you wind up on the run." 

Overcome with the image. Quaver couldn't believe the man; Quaver couldn't respond to him as he felt too much of himself, por- 
trayed, exposed, his own image admiring him admire his own image. At last he felt gone from Duke, in companionship, in retrospec- 
tive reference, to the spirit of the place. He theorized suddenly that he had been the object of his own fear, deriving a surge of mar- 
velous energy, drawing himself into his most dangerous possible situation; fear dedicated to himself had given him consciousness 
beyond the university situation and he had pursued the consciousness expanding his borders until he was gone. Synonymous with 
fear was love. Soon the man dropped off to sleep and Quaver whispered with Maria; their words mingled, then their voices and their 
breathing; at last, at the end of suspended silence, they kissed. 

When they reached St. Louis, Maria had a car stashed at the airport and drove him to his home. He went quietly in through the 
back of the house, turned on a small reading light, covered it with red glass, sat down and wrote out the lines in the back of his 

i used to think and there would be nothing 

i had no feelings falling their eyes would trace my palms 

things would be wrapped in themselves somehow after everyone was gone 

too perfect for me to move you were still there 
but set in the wrong perhaps 

pl<Jces behind my back 

people were different though i never believed you 

they were right in their places for a moment 
missing only the ends of things you whispered 

in the streets they would run into each other i was alive 
they would pick up the things that had fallen 

they would ask each other i do not have to ask 

what to do by what you meant i was moving 

where they were going answering to no one. 

and they wouldn't meet again. but still, now 

i would meet them in the night i dream 

i would stand in the same motion if not die, 

taking my hands from my pockets said would be, 

turn them inside out be lived. 


The poem was intended for Maria, whom he never saw or tried to see again. 

It was beautiful to understand other people followed themselves, loving and fearing, and his next three years of college he met 
more than a few other people. He worked what he wanted to work, his writing in between reading numerous novels, sharing it in 
personal relationships with teachers, and having no trouble with the institution. At last, when Quaver completed the requirements for 
an English degree, he left his place once more, hitchhiking across the West in dead winter, living what came as fortune passed every- 
where; whatever place to sleep, food to eat, he abided without necessity. Many worthy of penetrating perception understood him as 
a failure, someone who retreated from modern civilization growing a tail between his legs, yet, others envied his mobility, his lack of 
responsibility, his identity not lost in a job, a home, a name, and wondered how he could live without familiarity, security, regenerat- 
ing himself somehow. 

Before his return to St. Louis, he was himself back at Duke University discovering the fates of his brothers, having pretensions 
about their futures and wanting to absolve them into fact. And the school itself, had it continued to sleep with its aging infertile 
gratifications, the fabricated feelings of accomplishment from the raw material of essential chaos? Perhaps the ache of their sadness 
in lesson upon lesson, in their apprenticeship for the acceptance of illusions, turned into a mellow consciousness, an understanding 
of helplessnes whose strength confirms the subjectivity of feelings and expresses itself for its own sake, intertwining strands of fear 
and love. Then again, perhaps the school never rests now, refusing to break down like a machine. The possibilities, the fantasies 
reached for him and he left New England spring to gather himself at their scene, their source. 

He caught the shuttle flight from New York to Washington without paying for it in a deal the secrecy of which protects the guilty, 
then, after a night at National Airport being prodded by cops and bums, he hitched down to Durham, catching rides salient as any 
road novel, especially the last one with a black NYC mentor on the run out of the city and headed back to Georgia, where the land's 
enchanted, the people evolutionary, alien, solemn, surreal. Quaver drove the hulk, the hunk of a 63 pontiac station-wagon, weaving 
and drifting at eighty mph while the man dozingly reeled off a long methodical rap about his experience in Harlem. 

"Lass satahday i shot straight pool wit tis fello, shakin' as i knockt down fitty-one straight on heem; my first fuckin shot." 

Quaver remembered Harlem as the last place humans would survive if they were to survive at all; if it died, the toughest 
mother-fuckers in the tug of war with existence would lose, and who wouldn't lose before them? The angular dignity, humbled, 
composed, alert as the whites of his eyes, and the sureness of his speech even as he spoke his name, "I'm Jackson," filled Quaver 
with premonitions of totality, somewhere beyond the body, beyond the universe. Besides, he was back in that subtle Virginia country, 
the blue and the green walls; besides, cassette tapes of Wilson Pickett. Very fast, they didn't get too far before Quaver was out of the 
car, hefting his pack up the exit ramp to 501, with nothing but the man's silence and Quaver's, "so long," for a good-bye in parting. 

In peculiar contrast, the couple that picked him up off of 501 and drove him to Duke, expressed their sadness about graduation, 
binding them to return home to the deadly intensity of New York City. The city: the black man was on the run from it while these 
two were unwillingly drawn towards it, straining against it. Quaver told'the couple his story, how his ride with them was of great 
import in his own personal history, as it was his first new impression grafted onto his previous experience. Initially, he told the story 
to soothe them, to let them believe that they too could return as he was returning to the old school, the beautiful Duke, knowing 
that his own experience was a writhe, sporadically sensual, but mostly simply an expression of pain, the manifestation of a struggle to 
become what was expected of him. Quaver was fascinated by these two smitten with Duke, who had created fulfillment confessed 
only as they were torn from the place. He saw how wrong he had been to try and present a permanent picture of Duke; a memory 
was nothing they could go on. Their regret, their sober nostalgia and gentle despondency, rifled through him like coming out under 
the sun on a chill day. "That's, that's women's campus isn't it? I remember the wall; we're on the east side aren't we?" he asked invol- 
untarily, due to the arousal from renewed familiarity. "Yeah, that's it," said the man, driving^ slowly, a sig^h under his sobriety. 

All the semblance of mood died as Quaver had returned; he was experiencing the time he might have had. On the clear warm day 
it seemed as if a microcosm of celestial firmament had settled into the shaping of Duke. The sun ignited the green in trees and grass, 
waning and waxing in the wind gusting. The grey of the gothic buildings brightened, like dark clouds hiding the moon, and the thick 
stone seemed penetrable, as if he could beam through. Freaks, from the week-end heads to the out-on-the-farmers, occupied space 
with their styles, positioning their dispositions, their woolly appearances suggesting the place as wilderness, as it was, closer to the 
beginning in now. He saw a woman throw a frisbee towards a man, but absurdly it went high in the air and glided Kami Kaze behind 
her; she wriggled and bent herself towards the fetal and collapsed laughing on the ground. Such self-consciousness, thought Quaver, 
her emotions are transformed from embarrassment and queasiness to the sense of dazzling amazement in simply being, so childish, 
but in the grown woman, aware, as her actions are affectations of herself. At Sarah's Garden, on the two campuses and even in town 
among the inhabitants. Quaver saw that the Duke he'd known three and a half years before was no more. He dismissed the death of 
his previous image, knowing he was a perpetual stranger to himself. 

At last, the couple dropped him on East Campus; he left his pack in jarvis and took a long walk downtown. When he came back he 
climbed a tree and sat in it writing a letter until the light began to fail. Then he came upon a phone and looked up one of his old 
brothers, who happened not to have a phone, but stew information gave him an address. So Quaver took another long walk to Uni- 
versity Apartments. On a third floor, an embodiment impressive of honest appearance, nubile and named Bonnie opened the door on 
him; he said, "Is Lindy here?" 

She hesitated, thinking fast, "No," she said, cautiously. 

He knew he had to explain himself, how he knew Lindy, what he was doing there. The first phrase that he thought, "You aren't 
going to believe this, but . . .", he decided against, because it could possibly make her fearful of him. "Well, it's a complicated part 
of my history, the way I knew Lindy, three and some odd years back; I dormed with him freshman year, and I just thought I'd make it 
down here before he was to graduate and leave, before I'd lose the chance to stay in touch with him." 

"You're an old friend." 

"Yeah . . . right, I guess." 

"Lin isn't here and won't be back; come in; sorry, there's no place to sit." 

The apartment was bare, for sure enough, Lindy had left already, and his wife would follow him to Indiana in a few days after she 
tied up her own ends here. Lin had finished pre-med and she had done with nursing school, meeting in their junior years, marrying at 
the end of that summer. They had never had any ups and downs, but they were constantly forced to create understandings. Quaver 
sat on the wood floor and pulled a sixteen ounce beer out of a shopping bag. Bonnie came back into the room and sat across from 
him. She had long shining brown hair and large brown eyes, but she didn't look dark and secretly alive or stock her glances and flow 
of hair with controlled suggestion. Actually, she was alertly direct, focusing herself on Quaver's or her own words. Eventually, after 
one of the instances when her reaction to Quaver was thoughtful and silent, she said, "This is interesting, meeting an old friend of 
Lin's; he hasn't told me much about his freshman year." 

"There isn't much that can be told. He worked a lot, kept to a schedule, made good grades. Week-ends he didn't go with the packs 
to get drunk, see stag films, and prowl around campus. Sometimes he had dates with girls, and then he had a relative here. I don't 
know much about what he did when he wasn't at the dorm. We were friends by situation, living close to each other, having some of 


the same classes; we each knew the everyday person in the other, in everyday eating together, working together, and talking about 
everyday. He was constructive, conservative, meeting challenges, racing toward goals, a busy person and a violent one when his way 
was confronted with obstructions." 

"He's still conservative. He eyes peo[:)le with long hair, suspecting they are probably shams, appearances empty of conviction and 
determination, confused or deceiving." 

"He can be right many times thinking that." 

"We know freaks, but many of them aren't freaks, they're the same as they were before the freak image was created. They may be 
smoking dope, festive for changes in their way, but their natures behind their outlooks don't change, just as liberated women con- 
tinue to get horny and draft resistors still don't take shit from anyone, which is maybe how it should be." 

"How it is, is how it should be?" 

"I don't know, Lin and I are moving now. Duke was endurable and sometimes a good time, but mostly Lin 'and I just got involved 
with each other and limited ourselves to what personally involved us. It must be different for you, with all the traveling you've been 

"It's different. I've been through things I couldn't handle, but I'm secure in being able to get through any situation as I don't act 
much according to the consequences of my actions. I don't have a will to identify myself with particular people and places, so I don't 
live in the depth, in the intimate involvement most people have. There's always a distance to go yet and a distance away from where 
ever I am. I can't determine the way things are and I live them as they should be, which isn't difficult when it's never necessary to 
cope with things. I don't believe in coping, to cope is to put up with things, adapting to them, to change myself inside because it's 
very obvious nothing much but my own situation is under my control and my situations rarely belong to me alone. I absorb situations, 
stay aware of them, learning from them; when there's nothing left to learn I won't cope, I won't have to." 

Quaver felt as if he was participating in an interview, describing so much of himself and listening to Bonnie answering herself to 
him. He learned facts about Lin and was down from fantasizing him to guessing who he probably was. He felt Bonnie had made his 
day, and he walked out like a man on the front porch with a cigar, yet he walked out and that was all: he would write them later, 
when they had another address. 

Walking back to West Campus he met two women sitting off the porch to their house, offered them a banana from his shopping 
bag with comic excitement. "Whant-a Banana?" he cried. 

They smiled and seemed to become extra-alive, surprised until surprise itself caused them to speak. "But you'll want the banana. I'd 
love to eat it but you'll get hungry and want it. You wouldn't have bought it if you didn't want it, would you?" 

"Go ahead, here, take it, eat it." 

"I don't want it now," said the coy buxom one. "But I'll eat it later," said the other who was stretched out back on her elbows, her 
legs dangling and kicking over the side of the porch, and she took it, grinning as Eve must have grinned at Adam when he passed the 
joint back. 

"Do you know of a place where I might crash?" 

Quaver sensed these two lived cheap and free and that others must be on their ride. 

"You can stay here," the coy one said, her voice void of any seductive invitation but full of promise, serious as to the intent of her 

"Wow, that would be beautiful," said Quaver, taking them up on it fast, "but I may not need to, I'm going to try and look up some 
old friends. If they're gone I'll be back." 

"You can come back any time; don't even think on it." 

"Ah, amazing, ok, eat," he said moving off and turning his back when it was said. He felt the corny happy of glad, thickly pervaded 
with the mental translation of being touched seductively on the fingertips. He envisioned the broad blue-green landscape of the 
human personality from a snow white peaking towards the sun, and knew that the 93,CX30,000 miles was a stone's throw away. There 
were no questions with free people, they just expressed and their expressions always happened without difficulty; of course, it didn't 
always work with Quaver, who liked to answer. It was a matter of what had to be done. 

As it happened, he never saw the two girls again. On West Campus, on the stairs up the Union Tower he stared at a man who 
stared back, and both simultaneously realized that they stared because they knew each other, but didn't remember who. 

"I've seen you before, haven't I?" the man said smiling. 

"Yes, you have, and I've seen you. I can't remember who you are, but I'll give you a hint as to who I am . . . three years ago ... I 
was a freshman . . ." 

"Oh, Hampton Hall . . . you're Quaver . . . Quaver Pale." 

"Agreed, and you?" 

"Jeb Headmann." He looked like a plain clothes Krishna devotee. 

"Ah . . . you just made me remember Maggie Stanley." 

jeb's face laughed but he uttered no sound. "I remember her too," he said at length, as if she had been in his story, as if he would 
tell it one day. 

So Quaver layed his rap on him; all about coming down to see old brothers before they graduated, recalling a haphazard promise 
he made to concerned brothers the night of his departure three and a half years ago, a promise that bound him to come back to 
Duke, the worst kind of promise, the promise you didn't think of keeping. He didn't think of speaking of the promise to Jeb, he told 
only his intentions, his presumptions, and even went back as far as his motivations. All was carefully laid out like exhibit alphabet evi- 
dence that knowhow spoke all for itself beyond all discussion, contemplation, decisive judgement. The tree grows around the vine. A 
thing is accepted as is, for its own sake, feeding energy into being between the two of you. Quaver's voice was so matter of fact it 
sounded as if the words spoken had no relation whatever to the speaker, the voice pointed at the clouds, at the hidden stars, like 
saying "look . . , there," the moment rising from sleep. Adding it all up, he was as if he was involved in an infinite destiny. 

Jeb seemed to see Quaver's lifetime in one striding up the stairs, and upon the third floor opened an office door, wholely owning 
the place. Quaver was amazed, jeb said, "You feel like getting stoned?" 

"Oh, beautiful, sure . . . wow, I had some hits on the rides down from Washington D.C. this morning . . . fine rides. 
"MMmmmmm, ning . . . ning . . . ning," Quaver said just before he lit into the joint, then, holding a breathless silence while Jeb 
jammed smoke, he relaxed. Their long exhales like their last ones collided in the air like two swelling rivers of steam, boiling on con- 
tact, and long after it evaporated they smiled. "Ah," said Quaver, "it's time to take my shoes off; it's been a long day." 

He met a considerable portion of others involved with working out the yearbook: photographer. Jack Hone, who took pictures 
with or without a camera with or without film; Kat Haskins, who laid it out on the pages and shot film like a spear into the fatty 
world; and then at last, Wally Case, walrus and wooly looking, sometimes called Reeds, because he breathed below the surface. 

Quaver had known Reeds during the great flunk. Reeds, a complete mope but bottomless, as if he was his own cup of tea, con- 
stantly turning white while refusing cream. Here, Quaver was confronted with him. 


"Quaver!" he chuckled innocently, "What are you doing here?" 
"I came to see you, Wally. Say does anyone still call you Reeds?" 
"Everybody calls me Reeds," said Reeds informatively, but nothing followed. 

Quaver oriented himself: here he was involved with those involved with the yearbook, the heart of memories. What strange veins 
had pumped him to this source, this union tower, high spire in the tradition of the cathedral, in a ministry position, existing only to 
serve, as the conscience serves the consciousness, as the emotions saturate the mind, as the years are remembered? Had he arrived by 
tube? In any way he felt for the first time that he was at Duke to stay awhile. There was no question of crashing, no expectation of 
leavmg; in the yearbook the facts of the institution and the odds on the people were gathered, calculated, and Quaver wanted to 
scrutinize it through what the creators of it transmitted. Quaver would remember them, their own subjective influences on the year- 
book, capture their shapes and mold characters, feel their touch of style, move with their actions, xeroxing them, writing their mem- 

Suddenly he felt it was no dice: the yearbook wasn't the year, it was the book: as fictional as a spotlight roving for reality on a pitch 
dark stage, and the people working on it weren't operators, they were the light. Memory can be either dim, wading, and wallowing — 
or an exact art, an illusion, and the workers recorded, flashed the flashes, the laughs, the dances, the plays, the feel of being totally 
into every pore of the scene, and their recording was communal, viewers would react without question, they would be speechless or 
their breathing would be barely laudable, or they might put on some music, call the responsibilities and notify them of their immedi- 
ate decision to take a small vacation, just to catch up with their lives. The gradual creation of the book, the construction of the 
whole being here, by people ended here, either in graduation or in another year here, intimate lovers of the place, startled an incredi- 
ble desire for the deja-vu in Quaver, Quaver, who hadn't been here in years much better than the year he was here. The yearbook 
ressurected Quaver's past, a fantasy of course, but the fantastic situation saw him, reacted to him, lived with him, became so real that 
he fashioned it was a biography of himself, as he felt a kind of instant recognition beyond yes and no when he thought of it. 

He took his situation without intensity; his seriousness admitted, like a man that has no money, that there was a story of his history 
in his own history. One takes one's history seriously even as a movie. One pays attention and sits through the whole film, a week or 
two long. Quaver not only watched, he helped create it, his vision superimposing over the action. They got their exercise throwing 
the frisbee, they rapped and read magazines, books, minds, when they wanted to relax, the rest of their energy was involved in get- 
ting Duke while it lasted, hot out of the pan and out of the press. 

There was graduation. Jack, |eb, Kat, and Reeds were the only ones to move as fast as the whole crowd and ceremony, shooting 
photographs by instant recognition, feeling like automatic pilots in a scene few could fly in, a mountainous range of emotions, this 
collision of begetters and their off-spring, families all. Impressionistic bloodlines ran through the paintings their photos had clicked, 
painted by angle, a distance, a focus, and something else, a portrayal of the place. Walter Cronkite acted as a source of force in this 
portrayal, so did a usurptive black man; the people concentrated on them, at least in the silence they created, but more in the irreac- 
tions; take, for instance, the moment boos and hisses unite with clapping and cheers, like blues above a rhythm, take them as the 
force of overtones. The people, packed in close enough to whisper to each other in their breathing, waving their programs like fans 
inside the body-heated dome, the peo[)le, indeed. Quaver felt as if everyone there had sent him telegrams. The invisible reactions 
were the people being uncertain of what they could say for themselves, if they could say anything at all, if anyone asked them. Per- 
haps the radical element of the scene was the President of the University, who persisted in trying to make light matters that were 
transparent, abstract, symbols like degrees, honors as weird as for existence that came across as blown kisses as surely as the doctors 
and nurses ovated standingly for each other, yet he was totally naive in his persistance, and as conscious of his naivete as a nude 
human, stripped of everything down to the surreal figleaf and trying to admit it so as to transform reality into something people 
could believe in. The people purred for him because he was clear and chaste, but the people yearned yet for a screw, a union with 
being in fulfillment and dangerous completion; they followed their fear of the unknown into the void, or tried to, and few realized 
the unknown was nothing without vanishing. Ah, the blank masses, so constant in their expression, fakers because they weren't ac- 
tors, fakers not knowing whether or not faking could go on, and survive. Surely the actors died in the performance; the fakers weren't 
a performance, graduation wasn't the big top, it didn't admit its absurdity. A crowd will have no part of its actions. 

The workers on the yearbook didn't withdraw. They took graduation back to the office, brought it all back home; they took the 
realizations of their perceptions and created them into the book, the fiction. They knew how to detach themselves without losing 
themselves in or out of perception, the inner reality of it, the outer limits fantasy of it. They chose a narrow path into oblivion space 
and learned a feeling of weightlessness, in a state of transcience, rifling the very atoms. Ultimately they vibrated, radiated energy with 
combustive spontaneity, excited and tooling everything with their recognition of it, into a style. 

And the style got them through the Mountain-going-to-Mohammed business; they pushed themselves to the edge because the 
style was the edge, having nothing much to do with views of all sides, and they were concentrated, fixating their work, crystallizing it. 
The work was a philosophy in doing it, solidifying and integrating collective consciousness with Duke, a world of patterns pressured 
into a cypher, an exoteria in itself, flying too fast through clarity. Looking at this world on a grand scale it turns into a kind of micro- 
dot, a perspective to the stars, perhaps, but necessitated and existing through day, starlight that extinguishes the stars. The patterns 
themselves are cycles as sure as the sun rises and the rain falls, and as seemingly purposeless. Laughing at the work, so symbolic of 
their laughter, they were emotirmally mobile, in a transcient presence of mind, freed by their own determination. 

The workers were removed from their own personal difficulties: Kat Haskins fought in a running battle with his draft board, jack 
Hone and Reeds had to weigh the financial and relative value of their parents against the tyranny of their loving willpower, Jeb Head- 
mann's marriage was rolling toward the rocks. They removed themselves the distance that practical survival, though necessary to 
being, is removed from the spirituality of being. Art didn't transform them into people, it transformed them into artists. 

One early evening Kat and Quaver cruised through Durham, returning to the tower, Kat to his lay-out board. Quaver to a short 
story. Kat drove like a mechanic, smoothly shifting gears, babying the car efficiently over the speed limit, his voice sure, as in certain- 
ty, as in acceptance. "How long you going to be here?" 

"Long enough to finish my story." 

"I read part of it this afternoon and thought it was clearly nihilistic and the nihilism seemingly led into another approach that was 
chaotic. But It wasn't another approach and it wasn't chaotic; it was emotional. You created an awareness of nihilism, but the em- 
phasis and advocation was on living on top of nihilism, in control of it." 

"Yeah," Quaver said, and waited. 

"Well, in a sense," Haskins said at last, "I'm living up the creek. I've got to deal with the draft, but that's not too much sweat in it- 
self. It's the general current of things that's bad; bad in the country and in the people. I won't go into the specifics." 

He hesitated a moment to give Quaver a chance to respond, but got nothing. 

"Anyway, I can see the nihilism. My own reaction to it is matter of fact." 

"What's that?" asked Quaver, interested. 

"Well, I mean, when the shit hits the fan I duck or catch it cleanly." 


Quaver hadn't expected such a blunt response, as abstract as any innage, but so physical, suggesting practicality. 

"Ah, that's nice," Quaver sighed. 

So Quaver lived in the tower, adapting himself to the yearbook scene. Soon he began staying up all night, adjusting his lunch to 
two a.m. at Dunkin' Donuts, Dobbs House, or a diner out on seventy called General Sherman's, eating fruit pastry, grilled cheese and 
BLT sandwiches, watching the padded waitresses, the chubby cops, the sad thin spades, truck drivers, and a miscellany of other night 
men whose faces hung from their skulls. He went to sleep shortly after dawn, after listening to the birds' mad morning chatter, the 
muted mallets of a single pair of vinyl shoes stamping down the campus pathways. Next to him slept a sickly mangy puppy, a living 
death on the scale of Bangla-desh victim, sleeping always the last sleep, awakening surprised, moaning and whimpering. He would 
awaken at noon or after, up for another meal, this time in the brown and white Blue and White Room with a friend or two, talking 
while his eyes followed women. He would have liked to be with a woman, but there could be no extended intimacy in it as he 
would be leaving and even now he was way ahead of himself, as he was coming back from a former leaving. The relationship he had 
with his memory was already in motion, and to move with a woman. Quaver would have to move away from the motion of the 
tower or bring her into it and lay it on her like a Martian landing in her back yard, programmed to involve himself totally in the 
identification of himself. Any one in general might look at Quaver and think "he's really into far out shit," and how could Quaver 
invite anyone for a fuck in his flying saucer. It simply wasn't done. 

Quaver spent his afternoons tooling around with the typewriter, involved in a constant cycle of making and drinking coffee, smok- 
ing cigarettes and an occasional joint, and talking with people who were in the vicinity. Quaver's writing was of his practical, interac- 
tive episodes; it went around the world, curving back on itself, spiral in its combined rotation about an orb in trajectory, in a line, 
from place to place. The writing was nothing but movement, not portrayed in a situation; it sounded like a myth, a complete myth, 
undefined and cut of context. When he considered the circumstance, the eventuality of definition in expression, he felt he was manip- 
ulated bv possibility. Context was whatever came to him; words existing for context were simply filler. He could not express simply 
to occupy time and space, to be, his expression was reaction, sufficient and spontaneously generated along with action, not as a re- 
sult of action. He was not a consciousness looking into situational stuff; the consciousness and the stuff were mirror images of each 
other, so he synthesized mercury, the reflectance, he didn't look through, search. 

As Quaver felt his writing to be nothing but power, he laughed and yawned. When another old friend from years past, Zach Cory, 
who dropped in on the yearbook frequently to interact with its creators, who was obnoxious, pointed, and not a little influencive, 
responded to Quaver's writing, he described its techniques, saying, "You are overly matter of fact; you must wallop people to keep 
them interested. You must take your characters out of chairs and identify them in love seats, bucket seats, swivels, and rockers; your 
characters do nothing but feel. It's blah. You've got birds on telephone wires, frozen, dead. You weave a kind of telepathy, I can feel 
it, but it's disconnected. The fiends strain their eyes and don't even get the finger from you. People are already desperate enough. 
You've got to speak. Say what you mean, see?" 

"I don't know, you're speaking." 

"Well, what of it; even in your placidity you're an expression provoked by my speech. You must provoke expression, even if you 
fail as miserably as I, provoking only an admission of ignorance." 

"Listening is too much of an art, the art of hearing what you want to hear. The objectivity of it is pervaded by the desire for objec- 
tivity. I can't begin to fill desire because filling would never end. My character's desires are filled like gastanks, not my viewers. The 
words one listens to are at least six feet under, perhaps they create a detail of significant substance, the barest particle of an epitaph; 
there is no peace in that kind of rest. I want to be into the cycle of longing and fulfillment but in terms of the infinicy of the cycle." 

"Give me that clearly," said Zach. 

"I want to create voices in the dark, then it is given that a viewer will be interested. My characters sit in chairs because chairs can't 
be seen. The character's context is static without his self, and self is a voice. The story speaks for itself; the author, speaking for him- 
self, is silent." 

"But you assume, then, that these voices, speaking for themselves, are the same for you as for everyone and you don't eavesdrop 
on their hidden thought and feelings." 

"Yes, I assume nothing for my characters. They think, they feel and react, but they can't be questioned. I try to move their exist- 
ences so fluently you have to constantly remind yourself, letting yourself live in this questionless world, a fiction, a contrivance, a 
character yourself . . . no, it's too fearful to put yourself in my writing. If you put up with it at all, you leave it while you take it, you 
stand back and look at it as you fall into it. The train moves on narrow tracks and you keep reacting to the scenery so you won't 
jump off. You take severe measures. Whatever else they are, they're severe." Quaver lit a cigarette, saying, on the exhale, "You 
wouldn't believe the criticism. People don't like looking in mirrors just to see them; they like to see themselves or do away with all 
reflectance together." 

Cory accepted Quaver's self-consciousness but he didn't like the idea of transmitting it to the viewers of his work. The room re- 
mained at room temperature. Cory dismissed Quaver's writing as Quaver dismissed it, saying, "So, I guess that's where it is," and this 
simple statement became both the foundation and summation of his criticism. 

One tired morning Quaver didn't rack out and sleep. He passengered in Wally Case's blue new Catalina down the interstate ten 
miles to the outskirts, the periphery of Duke-Durham. He entered Case's house in the country proper. Wally tended to the kitchen, 
cooking up eggs and peanut-buttering bread, home made by a catatonic schizophrenic who was boarding there as a friend of Lith, 
the titleholder and a dweller of the place. Lith was existant as jeb's estranged wife, arriving from her own all-nighter as Quaver and 
Wally munched on their last slices of toast. 

This morning he only got a look at her. She went up stairs to change her clothes before her own bread was toasted, and came 
down decked out, energized as a young fillie. She made the colt in Quaver quiver and stomp and paw and trail over and over the 
paths of introducing himself to her. But he didn't get far before she was out the door that didn't slam, despite her effervescence; and 
off to the day's business. 

Case drove him back to the tower and he slept into middle afternoon. She came in while he was writing but he stopped to talk to 
her, but as it happened, he didn't talk, he listened. 

"I have to get Maynard to leave," she said. 

Maynard was the catatonic schizophrenic boarder. 

"I mean, he s simply amazing," she continued, "but I can't have him around all the time. He's fixed everything in the house, re- 
upholstering the torn chair, fixing the latch on the front door, repairing the toaster and successfully adjusting the TV, but he doesn't do 
anything but act. He doesn't say anything. I get the itchy feeling that he has so much to say to me, something important and too 
worth the effort of saying it. The effort of speech hovers in the atmosphere of the place when he's there, and he never goes out. 
Lately I've been avoiding my house, just to escape this sense of expectancy, the intangibility. I can't deal with it. I wrote him a note 
this morning, telling him he must go." 

Quaver couldn't react to her story that moved along the lines of spontaneous pre-meditation. Nevertheless, he reacted, knowing that 


with her sensitivity tor expectation she might expect him to react, or she might read a reaction out of whatever he did. Quaver con- 
tinued to listen and when her stories were halted by the cautiousness of the present, by the sense of fore-thought caught in the silent 
mood and expecting an outcome. Quaver created conclusions; "Maybe Maynard will open up to you now that the situation at your 
house is proceeding to an inevitable conclusion." 

"No, it's not like him to feel forced into finishing off his silence. When he talks the silence seems to finish itself off." 

Her next story consisted of her college experience, how she wanted to get into audiovisual education. He felt as if he was writing 
their interaction, then, when Jack Hone and Wally Case came in, she turned to them, advising them on how to deal with their paren- 
tal situations. Hone's ascendants, though confronted not with their son but with a freak, a kind of personified gas which made them 
feel their very breathing was peculiar and unknown, would pretend they didn't sense the air. Sometimes they would gasp and Lith 
was trying to persuade Hone to sigh in response, gather his things and walk out of their support. Case's parents on the other hand, 
were not overly pretentious in their manipulation of Wally, presenting him with severe choices. He couldn't take or leave his parents. 
If he left he would leave their need for him, that cosmic emptiness; they were addicted to him. If he took them, he would have to 
dwell in the fall-out shelter of the home situation, his own will like a bomb threatening everything above the surface, above board, 
the ground level of fairness, the perishable level of fragile trust. Lith would have Case take leave of them. 

After she had left to get her dinner. Reeds, Hone, and Quaver mused about her. 

"She's practical. She integrates herself with the inevitability of situations until she can be mobile within them. She doesn't dismiss 
her fear of this inevitability, she transforms herself accordingly, in order to control the situation," said Quaver. 

"Yes, but I can't do the things she asks of me," said Hone. 

"You react to what I've said of her as she would react, cutting the situation clear into what you can and can't do. Jack, you're just 
like her." 

"Sure, what's wrong with that?" 

"I can't pre-meditate my actions as she pre-meditates hers. I'll survive no matter what action I take or leave, so pre-meditation loses 
its necessary condition for existence, as a way of survival. I'm keened on day-to-day existence on these consequences. Still, medita- 
tion exists; I like to think I think, remember, and project instantaneously, and aside from that there is being as meditation, an eternity 

Hone held a pipe full of dope in his hand. 

Quaver went over to him with matches. 

"I'll light it," said Quaver. 

"No, that's alright, give me the matches." 

"Why don't you just hit it and not bother fooling around with matches? You don't want your hands full." 

"I'd like to light it myself anyway," said Hone. 

Quaver was in position to strike a match, but he gave match and book to Hone. 

"You understand," said Hone, "I'd just rather do this myself." 

"Sure," said Quaver, "I just thought it would be easier if I lit it, but I just thought wrong." 

Hone couldn't respond. He was holding smoke. 

He passed the pipe to Quaver. It was as simple as that. 

Quaver's relationship with his memory was complete, over then and over now and done with, by the people he was living with. 
Quaver delayed moving on for three days. He abandoned the prospect of hitching through North Carolina, West Virginia, Kentucky, 
Indiana, Illinois; he had fantasized the cops might grab him, crazy drivers would try to hit him or might take him further than he 
wanted to go. He had laughed at his own expectations, seeing himself instead on a bus, beginning on the dusk edge of the night and 
dawning on the flatness of the middle-west. He would leave for a long ride. Maybe by the journey to Saint Louis he would be trans- 
formed again by another Maria. 

Maria had kissed him then. It had been an entire trip in itself, that goes without saying. 



A ^ 



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, 6 Ave B No 612. Tegucigalpa. Honduras; ADEYINK A O ADEGBIE. 21 Danville, VA : 

ru Lere Lagos. Nigeria; LELAND AIKEN. 7 

,n. MA 02193. PETER J ALLATT JR . 205 Smili. •.. rtd . So Dart- , i ,. MA 02748; WILLIAM R. ALLDER, 9312 Pinsy BraiKh 1911 A House Ave.. Durham. NC 27707; RICHARD BAER. 1911 A House Ave. Apt 29. Durham. NC 27707; MARTHA L BAGBY. 518 Newtown 

er Spring. MO 20903. KAREN M ALLEMAN. 11117 Hunt Ci Potomac WD 20854; CHARL£S U ALLEN 8928 No HoOller Rd . Berwvn, PA 19?12: 8ENJA.MIM J. BAIER. 435 Calle Jazmin. Thousand Oaks. CA 91360; ARTHUR E BAILEY. 1409 Cleary Dr.. Ponca City. OK 

5356; ETRES BIDDLE ALLEN, 87 Easlon Rd. Wesfp'ji,. v,i IX)880; H ,Ri<'- W AMfNIR J80S 0"«ensbury In . Atlanla. GA 74601. KATHLEEN M BAILEY. 3'(.; ►. . ' .., 2001 «i: RHONDA Y. BAILEY. 3317 Ponoka Rd. Pittsburgh. PA 15241; 

LEN. 4203 Edgemonl. Austin. TX 78731. LARRY N ALLEN. 121 E. 43 St. Jacksonville. FL 32208: LYI- ',1 ALLEN III, Old Road CATHERINE E BAIN, 9306 WesL^.v "'r . . . , . , ^.(?-'0 JAivlc^' t^Alfi MS !>,.wne» D: ,v Liiaypdo IN 47906: GREGORY BAIRD, 

N¥ 10549: MARY M ALLEN. Forest Hill Circle. Vidalia. GA 30474. MARY S ALLEN. 1607 St *■ , Cfiartotlesvillo. VA 4796 Mcgrocvy Dr.. Fairfield. OH 45!., i»ANK W, BAIRD. 919 Court St.. Mar,.Jle. IM 37301: ROB£«.'i [ 3AIRD. 49U7 Vjdkin Dr.. Raleigt). NC 

. A ALLEN. 503 Hillwood Or . Nashville. TN 37205. RICHARD B ALLEN, 3532 Verona Tr Sw. r,„,. « ,A 24018; SUZANNE 27609. BARBARA A BAKER, 908 S Smithlield, NC 27577; DAVID B BAKER III, Cooleys Pond Rd., Gibson Island. MD 21056; JAMES 

266. Midland. NC 2810/; TALMAGE ALLEN. Po Bo» 186. Louisburg. NC 27549: HAROLP 0^: jH 1 Summit Or., LARRY BARt.« Ht 6 B6. 91. Moru,.« f„ • lERINE A BAKER. 1331 Granville St.. Burlington, NC 27215; MERL W BAKER. Chancellors Res-U 

NY 10706; MARGARET S ALLISON. 1869 Greenwood Rd . Roanoke. VA 24015; CELIA LEF , , MAN i6i 1 Hytfe Ave,. Winston Wo . foUa. MO S54C1 '.' ' . " '.'ju.f . 1 , .'am St , Newberry. SC 29108; MICHAEL S BAKER. 1601 Willingham Rd . Richmond. VA 23233; 

« ALLRAN. 359 2nd St PI Nw. Hickory. NC 28601, FRANKLIN E ALTANY JR . 4(J01 f>w^>^v■^ m Cnarione. NC 28211: 757 N W Vt^ St . Del .'y i u,.-.^ FL ;344i SUV. .' '- BAKER. Pilot Knob Park. Pilot Mountain. NC 27041; SARA K BAKER. 231 Buena Vista PI., 

. 1377 S Roosevelt Ave. Columbus. OH 43209; JOSEPH F ALVAREZ. 9920 P . *•,■>: FL 3315'; SANDRA J Memphis. TN 36112: s'^'Ph'r-j F<',KfH S11 -Citi Ln . Barrmgton. IL 60010: SUSAN R BAKER. 4808 Bon Air Drive. Monroe. LA 71201: 

luske St . Fayetteville. NC 28305; RALPH M AMEDEO. 14201 London La. RockM '!' rtB/.RA ALICE AMEf;. 2, 70 WILLIAM M DAKEx. 10 i it- . i r, i • M "?;5; DON W BALDWIN. 1121 Richmond Rd. Lancaster. PA 17603. MARK E BALDWIN. 

»d.. Falls Church. VA 2204-1. a.'. . ' ANDERSON. 1013 Highland 
neiy St.. Durr-jm. NC 27705: J.AMES S. ANDERSON, 3101 Valley 
-onvilli-, FL 32211; KIM ANDERSON, 986 Jacks Une, Lansdale, PA 
f, nCBFRT B. ANOFRSaN 116 Hfirr.n Pit,. ',■■ ^ NY 11566: 

T AM^fltlWS. 4421 \ 

1 Chiugo IL eOfr 5 JOHN J 

Wulord PA 15090 CATHERINE S 

anchvtile Rd.. RidgeMd. CI 

Cleveland Hts. OH 44118; ROBEi N JR. 10018 Bluecoat Dr.. Fairtlx, VA 22030; STEVEN K. ?0C:':. '"■^Nnv ■ ., , , - - . ^nADD, 3' .emkjck Dr. Falls Church. VA '"042; MICHAEl 

''iXiLAS G. BECKi 5 Wynwood Dr. Rocky Ri»»r. OH 44116; ARTHUR L -igwood Rd . Ly olANi-- .jing jr j Major CroH Or. Sumt«. . 29150; BEVERLY 

,nnr.. .., -TOPHER L. BEt^ ); 2 foxfifa Rd.. Kwrwrs.ille, NC 27284; MARY L BEEDE. BRADLEY. Po Bo. 'rews. NC 289v-.. jAhtj K ' i« Part, "=' , Misiion, KS 66215; NANCY <- ' Lo.ingi 

4; RODNEY N. BEEGlX 3673 Randall Mill Nw, Atlanta, GA 30327; JEANNE E BEERS, 725 Clifford Dr. ;t5burgh, PA 152»o; ROBERT CLARK BK«aLEY JH , iSSO b ()uel)«c. Tuba, OK 74135; ROBERT H. BRAQLtf iuib North M, „ ount A 

m, 22 WMson Rd., Faimood NJ 07023; CATHERINE J. BEHRENS. 82 Westiedf* Rd , W Simsbury CT NC 27030; MARY J. BRADY 368, Mount Hop*. WV 25880; CHARLES P. BRAGDON. 9708 Glw Way 0>oo Mii: WO 20022; ARNOLD 

m Dr.. Nn> Canaan. CT 06140 DONNEt I. BEU, 2409 BO Air Ave.. W JMn, NC 27893; ROBERT E. BELL. BRAGG JR , 2307 Sprunt Ave., . .m. NC 27705; ELIZABETH A. BRAHANA. 163 S Homewood r» Athonv GA 30601; MYRNA L BRAKE. 5( 

THOMAS C. BERG. 800 Valleyview Rd.. Pittsburgh. PA 15243, ANDREW MARK BERLIN. Apt ibai 1901 J F K Blvd., Pdilldalphia. PA 19102; MD 21013; LAURA J BRtEaON.4401 Holly Hili Rd . Myjn>viiie. MD ?0782; MICHAEL J BRt L>. 3.3 t 89 it Ne- lo.k N- .J026 BARBARA 

MICHAEL L BERMAN, 400FoulkRd 4c 1. Wilmington. DE 19803; DAVID H BERNANKE. 420 S PMy St. Gatfney. SC 29340; CAROL WOODSON A BRENNAN, 1241 Forge Rd.. Cherry H.ll. NJ 08034; JOHN T. BRENNAN JR.. 990 River Rd . youngstown NY 14174 MARK j BRENNER. 46 

BERNARD. 1910 Sihrar Bank Crt. Houston. TX 770S8; SMEIIAH A. BERNARD, 391 Munroe Circle So. Del Pla.nn IL SOOie; VERA*ELLEN Cratlsiand Rd,. Chertnut Hill, MA 021S7 CEUS A, BREWER, 2755 Momii-glor. Nw, Atlanta, GA iCl-"' r,ta- ' SRfArs ; i,' s P.rdae Rf 

BERNARD, 105 E Hont St. Smithfield. NC ' ■>; ROBERT E BER' ee Rd, Cranford. NJ 07016; C*. 'RRENDERO, f V) Kinston, NC 28501: STEPH' ,, 1703 Glendale Ave. Durham, NC 11 DEBORAH A Bk ' .Y 

RICARDA B. BERRY 1310 Broufhtor N Tangoburg. SC 291 Ml E Pea Rklge Rd , Huntingtor >5705 M BRIGGS, 23 Arundel SI 810; LAURA E BRIGGS, 401 Lakewood Oi Richmond Va PATRICIA L BRIGGS Sierra Pararaima 

J, BERRY. 1021 GrMX SL.Olvtiam, NC ./. 01; DEBORAH J. J. ;.(._. .. .^;^ .Id. NJ 07081; GEORGE E. BE - 175 Pt 740. Meiico 10 Of; W „ .„. :42 Meadoxlane Rd . Deartom, Ml 481. )AVi BRIGHT Route 1 Boi 440c Lutherville MD 

York. PA 17403; MICHAUO.BESANCON 1S45 C^iri Dr., Charleston. SC 29407; RICHARD A BERSIN, 113 Split Rail Ct. Cherry Hill. NJ 21093; JAMES E BRILE ^i»y Hill Rd Rt !. Malvern. PA 19355; PAF ELA J BRII £Y ircle Dr Thomasville NC 27360 ROBERT »- 

CHRISTOPHER F BEST 154 S A St. Scott Alb. IL 6222S; NATHANIEL J BETHEL, 1285 Paiton St , Oanvilk. VA 24541; WANDA J. BETTINI. 

2 Bo« 77. Roiboro NC 27573; HENRY P. BETZ, 294 Briar LvMv Chambersburg. PA 17201; RICHARD R. BIAS 362 Newman Ave.. Fort Thomas 

KY 41075; FRANK J 8IBA JR . 7909 WestWDad Court. CUMon, MD 20735; JOHN E. BICKEL. 1235 Woodmare Ln.. Owensboro. KY 42301; 

REBECCA ELISE 6I0EAUX, 29S Wney St . Providence. Rl 02906; ANDREW A. BIEWENER. 8 Weidel Dr Pennington NJ 08534; MARY A 

8IGEL0W. 103 Norrll Ijl.. Oal< Ridge TN 37S30; ROBERT K BIGELOW. 120 Waring Or . Summervllle SC 29483 MARILYN C. BIGGS M7K 

MagrudarLane. Rockvillf MO 20850 KLXIN J. BILLERMAN, 104 -velt Dr., t ' ' .>. BILLINGS. 795 F 

Clair PA 1S241; ROBERT K. BISSET. 561 Second Ave.. Satelltte Bch FL 32935. ROBERT D. 8ITLER JR 2946 D* Soto Way So. St Petersburg. 46514; ROBE 

fL 33712; DAVID A 8ITNER. 102 Piper Dr . Pittsburgh. PA 15234 CAROL J BIXLEH. 4108 Redwina Dr.. Graantboro, NC 27410; ROBERT E PHILLIP D. B 

BJORHUS JR., 22 Diana Lane, Windsor, CT 06095; BENJAM :. f SLACK 3oi 321, Butnar. NC 27509; DONALD N. BLACK, 2121 Boston BROWER. P 

^ MUlt Rd., Brecksvill*. OH 44141; ELIZABETH H BLACK 3: . rtidgewr i .d. N W, Atlalla, GA 30327; KENNETH A. BLACK. 240] Hatherly Rd , BROWOER. R 

* ChaHotte. NC 28209: RICHARD G BUCK 42 Heos^ne. Rd , Sc ^ton, CT 06489, STFVEN t) 81 ACK, ^2i Delancey St, Philadelphia PA Gregory Rd., 

19101; SU'5»- ' BLACK. 513 Lai,. " "' •■ •■ . ^J03: LABARRF •" 1116." -i r : Greenvine, SC 2;— "' 01915: Ff 

3almoral D 

r East Oion Hill. MO X 


1 entry Clu 



amon, NY 

10550; JOHN H BOOOl 

E.3227Sui.«.R<! R^«gh 

BUCKH0L7 hf -ove St 

BOLANO. 11221 SIMoXe Ljne. Rockyil-. MD 20852; MARGARET R BOLICK. 6331 Arden Forest Rt 3. Clemmons. NC 27012; JAMES BOLINC. 07924: CAMERON F. BUNKER 314 Dacian A.... Durham. NC 57701; CHARLES L BUNN JR . Route 1 Bo. 503. Spring How NC 27882; Wi 

Rl 3 e«i 309. Sil.K Cty. NC 27344; ROBERT B. BOLINGER. 517 Cheroliaa Blvd.. Knoxville, TN 37919: JOHN C BOLLINGER, Nashawtuc Rd.. B. BUNH ill, 1826 Glenwood Svia , Raleigh. NC 27608: MITCHEU M. BUNTING, 1231 W 62nd St Kansas City. MS 64113; WILLI 

Concord. MA 01 742. MICHAEL I. BOMGARONER. 383 Tavistock eh'd . BarringtOf>. NJ 06033: SUSAN E BONAR, Route 2, CKapol Hill, NC 27514: BURDETT. 45 Red Cloud Rd F >rt Rucker, AL 36360: JEFF J BURDETTE 124 Thni-.h In Naoerville. II: HARRY J. BURGESS II. 520 M ( 

SHERYL H BOND. 15 SunfiaW U.. WmI HarHord, CT 06107: VALERIE A BOND. Rt 1 Box 93, Sunbury, NC 27979: MARK t BONDS, 17 St. Ave., Towson, Ml, 21204; JOHN E BURGESS, 1538 Mission Rd Lancaster, PA \7W\. STEPHEN F. BURGESS, 100 N 0^m,»< 

1, WV 25401 JOC C BURGIN Kl. COO E^mK Ad.. Mlknor*. MO 21210: ROBERT E. BURCIN, 3 
C. mmUl. X7 Ro«.buo Hd.. ««1«nln|Mn. M 19803; MEREDITH L. BURKE, 50 SunriM Hill Or.. V 


CT 06107: DOM 


Ak>»ndrf.. V 

22310: DENNIS 


ON. 83 



nmrd Rd, W. K 



<»rton Bik. Va H< 

PlttlburlN PA 




D. CHILOS, 139 8th St Crt. S*. Hickory. NC 28601: MICHAEL L CHILDS, 4007 PlndKo-r ? 
! 1 Bos 133, PstantDwn, WV 24963: PAMELA M. CHIN, 328 Undtn Ara.. WHnwtto, IL 600! 


«E BURN, m Onuf C»nt» Rd.. Orn.f., CT 06477: ANDREW I. I 

W Chiv<l> Rd., YofK PA 174»«: DUNE C BURKLEY. 2 

: CHOW. 1 ChMi Shou Rd., Talpd Gout QiMit. Tripa. Taiwn 

W, NoWasvill«. IN 4Sa«0: EMILY I CHRISTENBERRY, 310 W 12th St, Bay Mliwtt*. AL 36505; 

N WM.. Sa«in«.. Mi: ROBERT E. BURNS. 207 Norwood Ay... Collinpwood, NJ 08108: RONALD G. BURNS. 4506 JOHN W. CHRISTIAN III, 2529 Hoigaf. Rd.. Akron. OH 44313: ROBERT B C ^ iTIAN, 18 No Cl«rry L«». Rumaon. NJ 07760; UNDA S. 

C 29206: STEPHEN J BURNS. 225 Warwick Dr.. Ptttaburgh. Pa: SIDNEY i. BURRIS. 214 Lady Aator PI.. Oan«ill.. VA CHRISTMAN. U37 Bai-Air. Dr.. Dayton. B.*:h. R -— ■""■-" ^^ CHP'S r r-lER. 2078 W Polo Rd.. WIn.ton Sal«T.. NC 27106: JOSEPH F. 

1087 Larkapor Tarrac. Rock»ill«. MO 20850; LARRY W. BURTON. Rt 1 Bo> 222, Thoenai»ill«, NC 27360: BETSY L CHUDECKI. Ill Hay« St., Nw» Britain. CT 0605- , CHURCH. 3901 Robinhood Rd.. Wlnaton Salam. NC 27106; DEBORAH A. ClACCI, 

» Farm Um*. Sandy Spring. MD 20860; CRAIG E. BUSCHMAN, 157 Pvk Bl»d., Malrwnfc NY 1156S: ANN LOOISE Boi 531, Vallay Forgo, PA 19481: SUSAN E. CIAR '5941 Dornoch Round. Miami Lakas, FL 33014; JAMES C. CIFELLI. 27 Wadfvirood Dr., 

id Or St Louh MO 63131 BARBARA BUSSE 1132 Woodborn Rd Ourimn, NC 27705: MARK C. BUSSMANN. 4 Wood Eaaton, CT 06612; MARY L. CITTADINO. 3 Royal f u, 'jnnn. NJ 07740; SUSAN M. CLAPP. 9 Dalabrook Rd.. Bloomfiald. NJ 07003; CAROL L 

63124; J K. BUSTER. 2012 RaM Rd, Laxington. KY 40503; CtWE R. BUTLER JR.. Rt 2 Bo, 9a, Law.«.««ta, VA CURK. 2019 Coronrt Lan^««. FL 33516: OAVID A. CLARK, 1143 Manch-tar A«.. Norfolk. VA 23508: ERNEST T. CLARK JR., 122S W 

I. 1022 Engi«.ood. Wlnaton Sal«n. NC 27102; DIANNE L BUTIER. 2SS0 Gal.wcrthy Dr.. Win.tOfl Satom. MC 27106: N«. Yo-t A.a.. Southwn Pinw, NC 28387: GEORGE P. ClARK III. 726 Rorhan Dr.. High Point. NC 27260: MARGARET L CLARK. 1021 EmmM 

PHILIP J. BUTERA. 413 Grow St. Brooklyn. NY 11237; ELIZABETH D. 

F. BUTLER II!, Oat Lnw. Napwvilla. IL 60540; REGINAIA J. ClARK. 1213 Chastnut St. Scotland Nack, NC 27874; RICHARD A. 

3-6003 SuKX Sq Apo. San Franclico, CA 96346; GREGORY S. BUTL£R. 511 For»t LaM Rd, Fayalta»llto, HO 2*305: LAURA V. BUTIEJ*. Rl 1 Bw Wvar, OH 44U6; SUSAN J. CLARK, 19 Oik Drtyt Durham, NC 27707: THOMAS C. CLARK, 6393 Lakaviaw Dr.. Falla Church, VA 22041; 

247. Co4orado S«xing«. CO 80907; FRED R. BUTNER, 397 Plymouth Ava., Winr.l0ll Satam, NC 27104; ALEXANDER P BUTTERnELD, 7416 THOMAS CONRAD CLARK, 3708 N Oakland St , A r.i^ton. VA 22207; CfORGE G. CLARKE, 2409 Harlem Blvd.. Rockford. IL 61103; WILLIAM R. 

Admlrri Dr.. Alaiandrta, VA 22307; CYNTHIA L BUTTERFIELD. 15 Tatum Or . MIfJdtatown, NJ 0774B; STEPHEN F. BUTTERS SW|4 RamUl PI., CLARKE 1364 ColKnsdale, Ci-Kinnati. OH Aiii »^ 5200 N Ctaan Flld. Apt 310. Fort Lauderdale, FL 33308; MARY A. 

OiaaO. ALVIN BYARS. 1842 Evelyn St.. Cayca. SC 29033; JAMES A. BYtf i { JR.. 11727 Gresn Bay Dr.. Hjualo. ^ IMOTHY M. .ne ,. i«r • „ 22101: RALPH W. CLAYTON, 1821 Northgaie SI,, Durham, NC 27704; WILLIE J. CUYTON. 22 Newby Dr., Hampton, VA 

BYESS, 308 Govwnor. La.. Concord. TN 37720: DEBORAH LBYRD. 800 Nw 73 Avfc.Plwtatlon, a 33313; JAMES ^• jlonlal Dr.. 2i, • CLEMENT. 5024 Baltimore Natl. Pike. Sattimore. MD 21229; DANE H. CLEVEN. 3 E Berkshire, Mt.Prospact. 1160056; CLARK 

Montgomery. AL 36111; DENISON E. BYRNE, 502 Heavitree Une, S«wna ParK MD 21146; JANET M. BYRON. 7% . «ory Avo., IPSl ' 2b, ' Arundel R4, College Park. GA 30337; KAREN G. CLONINGER, Rt 3 Box 203, Uncolnton. NC 28092; WAYNE 0. CLONTZ, Po 

Cincinnati, OH 45208; CAROLYN ANN BYTHEWOOO, 2390 Glandde Dr., DKatur. GA 30032; TULA P. CAKOON, 2418 P^brti Rd.. OariTain, NC Son 182. Glen Alpine. NC 28628; WILLIAM M. CLOWDUS, P Drawer 1043, Wlliiamsport. PA 17701; JOHN W. CLOWER. 4446 Fontaine Of. Sw, 

Oranda dr.. Wealfteld. NJ 07090; F08E1DA CALDERA: MARGARJT K CALDWEU 1114 Lula Uka Rd, ) nHiojl Mt TN )?1!I0; jOHN R. 6SS06; JOHN COAN HI 27il Fo-sjt Dr Winston Salem, NC 27104; CARLIE J. COATS JR.. Route 4. Easley, SC 29640: JAMES L. S. COBB, 

CALDWELL JR.. 404 Colonial Height. Rd., Kingaport, TN 3/fV j; THOMAS S. CALDWELL, 107 Hllkraat tlam». .C l: "CHAt . D. -si, -|ifi . -n, h. »R Jv M L. COBB. 1419 Robinhood PI., Lynchburg. VA 24503: NANCYE COBB. 3723 Suffolk St.. Durham, 

CALHOUN. 906 Alhambra Ct, Ortando. FL 32*04; ROBERT W ;AUFF. 1442 fclalia Rd. Columoia, SC „. 'Si. Bo ( 6336 D - 77J. 'ICh --.u ■.: "'C 'K : jri SI . Hollywood. FL 33021: VIRGINIA A. COCHEU, 3519 Hilliard Rd, Jacksonvilte. FL 32217: 

Durham. NC 27705; JAMES M. CALUHAN JR.. 34 FairfieW tt.. Norwalk, CT 06851; HOWARD H. C».LL„WAl Jh.. Rt ) « Mountiin. L^ .11. CC HR' =■^2 . , <n itcn, rx 77027: WILLIAM D. COCHRAN, 22 Komar Dr., Ballston Lli., NY 12019; KIMBERLY P. 

31822; WILLIAM H. CALLAWAY JR., 5722 Arlington Blvd.. Ari .igton. VA 22204: HENRY C. CALUHAN JR. -MS Fail».ay -lottft NC 28. -^^ r JHRANE. ioble f... ' -o, . 046. H" ' COCKAYNE. 28917 S Ooverridge Dr., Palos Verdes Pe. CA 90274; JANICE R. 

JOHN C. CALOMIRIS. 104 Stonatianga. Orchard Park, NY 14 127; DAVID F. CAMMERZELL, 76 Fe<* ' ' Cf» -Jl CL 'OlA V. r. iDINGTf 2 12 4lh ': . Ne. « >■ 536. L j CODI. Rd 3. Reading, PA 19606: CHARLES G. COFER. 6599 Braddock Rd., 

CAMP, 26 Long Point Lane, Roaa Valley, PA 19065; JAMES C. CAMP, 304 Claxton Dr , Grat r ' "3 Old Alexandr ,. » J' , S IU«OT F. ( N. Tr,, Durham. NC 27701; DAVID CHARLES COGGIN. 703 Emory Dr.. Chapal Hill. NC 

VlllafaRd. Actoo. MA 01720; BLANCHE M. CAMPBELL. P Box 1198, KamuaU, HI 967VT <•■■. 27514: STACY •"■ 'W COGGIMS.l ",a. -anf Rock. AR 72207; NEALE A. COGSWELL. 2 Catharine Ct. Suffern, NY 10901; 

VA 22003; JOHN LAWRENCE CAMPBELL. 1812 Half Moon Dr., Laa Crucaa. NM 88001. I ■■.fttfiCC M CAMPBELL 3944 C'lKon Rd , Nathville, JEFFREY L COHEN, 3801 Bfu^-ning Place. Raleigh, NC 27609, STEPHEN MICHAEL COHEN, 4608 So Knoxville, Tulsa, OK 74135; ROBERT W. 

TN 37209: NANCY L CAMPBELL, Quaker Nack Rd.. Salem, NJ 0B079; M. BARBARA ' -PBELL, 4659 A Magnolia St.. Mountain Home Atb, ID COHN. 10041 Fontana La.. Overland Park, KS 66207; REAGAN R. COKER. 511 Charlton Rd., Rome, GA 30161; NEWTON J. COKER, P Bos 511 

S364«; SAUY LOUISE CAMPBEU. 779 Summit Ave., WeatlWd NJ 07090; SANDRA »MPBELL, 803 Longfield Rd , Phil«)a!ph.a, PA 19118; ^,^„^ gi. Canton, GA 30114; J, RANDOLPH COUHAN, 163 Br.rton Rd., Garden City, NY 11530; THOMAS P. COUNTUONO. 32 Penny 

SUZANNE R. CAMPBELU 415 Farms Rd., Grw, 06830: THOMAS M. CAMPBELL 207 Harvest Rd . Cherry Hill. NJ 08034, PATRICE M. M„<jow Rd., Sudbury. MA 01776; JEFFREY 0. COLi ' 18;. ' -v -'■ Charleston, WV 25314; ARTHUR M. COLE JR., 1601 Fairburn Rd. S 

Edwarda St., Roalyn HalghU, NY 11743; HUM .»NCIO JR.. OwwrHkimo 53 »3c, Madrid. Sp; SUSAN MELISSA CARAWAY, 26 Pin Oak COLEMAN. Farmingdate Rt. 6 Sox ?58. Martinsville. VA ^4112; T^REf t [MAN. 3107 Sw Blvd. Apt 2. Charlotte, NC 28216; WILLIAM L, 

88. Selbyvilla.DE 19975; GINA ELEANOR C. CARLE, 311 SLiMlto Apt 131. Durham, NC 27705; RONALD CCARLILE, 8015 Carlton St., Norfo*. ^„_^ Rochester. NY 14618: T;i J. COLGAN, 273 Holl-«- Rochester, NY 14618: LEONARD B. COLURD. Rt 9 Box 

CAHMICHAEL, 591 P«k Av*., ManhMsal, NY 11030; KIM A. CARMICHAEL, 3807 HMtherlon Rd. S W, RoMWke. VA 24014; JAMES P. GREGORY K. COUINS, 2819 Newb^ir v, ,«,lle, KY 4020E- lA'*'' I CQLUNS, 562 W Davis Blvd., Tampa, FL 33606; JANE I. COLLINS. 

CARMOOY, 625 W Scott Ava.. Rahway. NJ 07065; MICHAEL J. CARNEY. 203 Timb«Hl7ia, J«ll««, IL 60435; MAHCIA A. CARNEY, 1330 S i2j forest Park. Janesville, Wl 53545; JOHN C. COLLINS, 39 Ontario Rd., Belter. 

Graanwood, Par* Ridg*. IL 60068: JOSEPH P CAROUN III, 2321 Fomst Rd., Winter Pk.. FL 32789; ROGER E. CARP, Capitol InAuWas Inc., j,. jsnET A. COLM, 4419 Argyle Terrace. Washington, DC 200U; JESSE M 

1750 N Vina St, Hollywood. CA 9002B: ANNE BETTS CARPENTER, 209 Berkshire Rd, Richmond. VA 23221; DAVID E. CARPENTER, oakiay Una, COLWELL, 1834 Courser Court, Mclean VA 22101; ROBERT F. COMAN, Route 3, Hillsborough, NC 27278; JOHN A. COMBS, 116 The Crescent, 

Edina, MN 55435; WILLIAM G. CARPENTER 34»h St.. Ariington. A 22207; TERRY A. CARPENTER. 3169 N Pollard St, Ariington. VA WILLIAM H. CONGDON, 141 Alg- Trail, Medford cal-j, : i 08055; CAROLYN A. CONLEY, 5100 Buckingham Ct., Columbus. GA 31907; 

22207; JANET A. CARPINELLI. 2 Waldon Rd ack, NY 11725; CRAIG H. CARR. Carr Lane, Forestdalo, MA 02S44; GEORGE L CARR. 6633 ELIZABETH A. CONNAR. 3305 Jt: le. Tampa. '.. 33609; BR:AN S. CONNEELY. 1074 Uke Shore Dr., MaHape<)ua Pri<.. NY 11762; ROSS J. 

Lynnwood Blvd.. Richfield MN 55423; JONA:: S. CARR, 1045 W MarkM •;< r.,«n,horo. NC 27401; ROBERT W. CARR. 73 B«.rty Dr., CONNELLY, 340 Welierburn Ave na Park, MO 21) -.6; BURTO" C CONNER 6910 22nd St W, Bradenton. FL 33507; PAUIA CONNOR, 24 

Durfiam. NC 27707: CHRISTINE A. CARROLL 1026 St Albana Rd.. Baltknora. k • PATRICIA B. CARROLL. 852 Wellington Rd.. WInlton Beacon Ave.. Auburn. ME 04210 ' )N M CONS' '.M III. 2305 Fam : Baltimore, MD 21209; PETER F. COOGAN III, 413 Badford Rd, 

Salwn. NC 27106: VIRGINIA M. CARROLL. 190 UndMl St., Wlnnatka, IL 60093 M E. CARROLL, 18 Springdale Rd., Kendall ParK NJ pi,ssjnh,i|i,, NY 10570: CAROLiN COO: , 10' Paynes Church Rd., K . VA 22030: CAROLYN A. COOK, Box 32 Georges Road, Dayton. 

27403; MARY ANNE CARSON. 3030 Glendale Av«., Durham, NC 27704; MICHAEL L CARSON. 5631 Tall Oaks. Birmingham. Ml 48010: RALPH E. g^j^ ^^j^ q, Knoxville. TN 3781 ;; R SSi 0. COOK, 3280 Fairhill Dr., Rocky River. OH 441 16; JAMES H. COOKE JR., 1403 Queen Anne 

CARSON, 84 School St, N«. London, CT 06320; WIUJAM E. CARIEUO, 71« Lirehvrood Une, Villanom, PA 19085; BARRY R. CARTER, 1010 ^^^ ^^ g,^„ ^C 28560; MICHAEL A. 'i E, 4719 Bass PI. S«, Washington. DC 20019: STEPHEN H, COOKSEY. 790 Shannon Rd.. 

Ma«k>w. Kilgve. TX 75662: BRUCE R. CARTEH, 523 Mcdonogh Rd Rr 7, Plk*avi8«. MO 21208: DAN T. CARTER. 1045 Bishop Walah Rd., Bridgeport, WV 26330; SUSAN L '.TOK ON, 7 Sw :' Place, S. Miami. FL 33143; EDWARD A. COOLEY, 108 N Hermitage Rd.. Beaufort. SC 

Cumbarlaod. MD 21502: KRISTEN CARTER. 2 Richmond Rd. Salisbury. NC 28144; SAMUEL H. CARTER JR., 2132 «3 Bedford, Durfiam, Nc; 29902; KENT B CO 5016 Uf Ion N Vi >iington, DC 20u. MICHAEL L CO. R 6733 Front Royal Rd. Springfield. VA 22151; 

SUSETTE D. CARTER. 61 Sean Rd. Waylan<: A 01778: ERIC A. CARUSO. 194 Monbtiai Ava. Rutherford, NJ 07070; CANDACE t CARVER, RICHARD S. COOP 4 Austin Ave, °rtt5 -lu, ■^ ': RO.-i E . ') Hillside Av* Short Hills, NJ 07078; WADE T. COOPER JR.. 

4421 No 25th St, Arlington. VA 22207: ELI/ CTH J. CARV , »8 Oxford Apt Banbury Ul., Chapal Hill, NC 27514; IRENE L CARVER, 27S4 300 Dry Ave, Car NC 27511; WILLIA. S 00^ ">^'- -Rd. V., - -<»g0: JOHN M. COPACINO, 26 Knollwood Dr , 

Momlngton Dr. NW.AtlanU.GA 30327: PMYli - CASA' '. Signal Mtn. TN 37377; PATRICK J CASEY JR.. 5903 Anniston Rd, Bathwda, Marra' " " "■ ''J71; HERBERT W. COPELA... , „ .U.,.,jld Ave :_._>.. UTHER C. COPELAND JR.. Main St. Woodland. NC 

MD 20034; WILUAM F. CASSANO. 25 Hollow Oat. Rd, i.„^yfint. NY 10514; JUDE A. CASSIDY, .0! Lytton Av... Pittsburgh. PA 15213: j/fi K. COPELAND. 424 Pamela r Hmsdale. IL 60521; MARTHA J. COPONY, 514 Douglas Rd.. Salisbury. MD 21801; MARION P. 

DONALD R. CA5SLING. 14800 Memorial Dr « 1208 Hou.t,, . TX 77024; MICHAEL A. CASTLE, River Rd, Uttie Falls. NY 13365: KAREN U jqo ^ 4067 Abingdon Rd.. Cha' iiill; ANDREW 0. CORBOY, 630 M^a St. Winnetka, IL 60093; JOAN 0. CORBOY, 630 Maple 

CATO. 105 alllay Dr.. Williamsburg, VA 23185; RONALD R CAVAGROTTI, 6336 Waterway Dr., Fdit Church, VA 22044: MILDRED A. CAYER. 2754 st innetka. IL 60093; MICHAE' AN 162 Hickory Lane, Closter. NJ 07624: BRENDA NEVIOJON CORLEY. 2319 Englewood Ave.. 

Robin Hood Rd.. Winston Salem. NC 27106; ELIZABtTH W OECELSKI, 113 EH'jbat'l St. 'avelock, NC 28532; PATP CM D, CECIL, 2500 David Durham, NC 27705: FREDERICK CORNNEL!. JR., 1215 Warrington PI., Alexandria. VA 22307; GEORGE FRANK CORRENT. 3 10 17th St.. fair 

Dr., Nashville. TN 37214; JAMES A. CEDERBERG. 3204 Easlvn BM., York. PA 17402; t REGORY CEHAN. 5733 : vfotown Cir.. Dallas, TX Uwn, NJ 07410; STF"' K <RKICK. 115 Takima Dr.. Missoula. MT 59801; DARRYL K. CORRIHER, Rt 1 Box 197, China Grove. NC 28023: 

75230; LAWRENCE J. CEPELAK JR . 11 Maple Dr., Undonhjril, NY 1 1757; BARBARA L CF^CE.2641 Mondamin Farm ■■= Uncaater. PA 17601; STEPHEN W ' I -d Dr Salisbury, NC 28144: EDUARDO ROUNDO COSTA. Salamanca « 20! 402, San Isidro, Limz. Peru; 

JAMIE f. CERUTTI. 3116 Virgin.^ .rieiton, » ^ S304; W. P' <>4 63 Dr.. Rago Park, NY 113. 5 GRACE B. CHALKER, ALAN >■ St, 11714; PAMEU COTTON, 900 Howard Rd., Stariwilla, MS 39759; FRANK J. COULTER JR., 342 

156 Craatwood Dr.. BrookfieM .J3: DONA C. Cf AMBE' j. 43 od Dr.. Nashvill*. TN 37204; DOUC AS J CHAMBERLAIN, P- k.MD211. - COUNIHAN. 9709 Connecticut Ave. Kensington, Md; NANCY C. COUNCILL, Uke Shore Or. 

13454 Ronnie Way, Saratoga , *5070; ARTHUR L CHAMB'-^' .1. 34 T-.. v , ,,(»,, nv 10701; D. ADAIR CE AMBERS, 105 Gilllcan E „ MD 21122; jv.. N R COUPLAND, ,^ iojise Circle, Durham, NC 27705; CHARLES D, COURTNEY. 1903 St George Place, Kinston, NC 

dr.. Homerville. GA 31634; iiARRY R. CHAMBERS. 2544 Sh-,lfla« Dr.. . . L , • HOLLY S. CHAMBERS, 602 Duncan Rd,, Wilmington, 28501; JOH' ."tS' ' ton, 1 Crestview, Rockingham, NC 28379: JOHN A. COVINGTON, 11103 Gunston Rd., Lortors, VA 22079; 

43920: ARLl N CHAMBUSS, 30 Hkkson Dr., Nm ProvManca. N . CHAMBUSS. 30 HIckson Dr.. Ne« Providwica, NJ 07974; COWPERTHWAIT, Steamboat U., Hingliam, MA 02043; CHARLES EDMONO COX. 332 Howard St. Mt Airy. NC 27030; JAMES C. COX JR.. Box 

CANDACE IHHtl CHANDLER. 5500 Graanlaal Rd.. Baltimore, MD 21 r CHANDLER JR,. Chaa* Hill Rd, Storiing Jet., MA 01565; 542. Tabor City, NC 28463: JEFFREY ELLIS COX. Apt itg Valley Terrace, Durham, NC 27707: JOHN M. COX. 3746 Aldington Or., .iackionville. FL 

DAVID A. CHANDLfP 42 WoodUnd Rd. New Canaw. CT 06840; M . ,"ANEY. 1209 Wllllamaburg Way, Cliarleiton. WV 25314; 32210: KAREN LEA COY, 12 Monticello Blvd., N.-, . OF 19720: PETEP J COYLE, 5 Cambridge Ave., Pt -, .„„, NY AULINE 

RICHAH0 6. CH -Y. 545 Garran Avfc. Norfolk, VA 23509; WILLIAM A ->--l ■). 1708 St George PI.. Kir ;ri,.,, NC 28501; PHILIP J. HOLT COZART. 276 Pine St. FuquayVarina. NC . .EY S. COZ' 102 Pine. FuquayVarina. NC . BARN" .<AP iEE. 

rud;r> Or., Xwila. OH 45385: JOY C. CHriRLTON, 529 W Valley Dr., Bristol, VA ^ ANDACE D. CK.(SE. 1460 Southdown Rd, Hillsborough, CRAMER, 542 Allen Creek Rd„ 

' • 14010; CLAYTON T. CHASE. 41 Hampton Knolls Rd. Holyok« MA 01040: RIC "ID H. CHASE. 41 mpton Knolls Rd.. Holyoke. MA 01040; Alverno Dr.. Brookfield, Wl 530C 

^JTANTIN S. CHATIRAS. 40 Ave. King Conataidn. Athena. Graace: ALBERT B. > HATTIN, 3415 M , ixk Ln.. BowlK MD 20715: RANDALL F. 22041; JOHN R. CRANFORD. li 

ly Dr., OUahORia City. OK 73116; JOHN T. CHEEK. 20S3 Rusaall. Ballmora. NY 11710; JO 

Va. SALLY J. CHEPER, 20 Oi* Av... Lvchmont. NY 10538; STEPHEN N. CHEREWATY. 19 E Russell St. Clifton. NJ 07011; DAVID A. 694. Madison Htgs.. VA 24572: GREGORY H. CRISP, 716 E Union St., Morganton, NC 28655; JEFFREY R, CRIST, 9 Thomas Dr.. Normal, IL 

•. C«ndh«ood Lik* Ck*. No Mlltord, CT 06776i LOWS W. CHERRY III, 201 U* St Cherry Oak, GTwnvilla, NC 27834; SWME E. 6176!; LUCY G. CROCKETT. 2115 W Club Blvd.. Durham. NC 27705: MICHAEL J. CHOMARTIE, 410 So 6th SI. Wilmington. NC 28401; 

INQ, 2016 ukmtmm. St Joaapti, Ml 49085; WIUJAM J. CHICKERING, 2016 Madew. St Joseph, Ml 490*5; JACK R, CHILDRESS, Apt DOUGLAS H CROMWELL, 18 Ardsley Rd.. Yardley. PA 19067: BARBARA CRONIN, 2002 Pricea Lne, Alexandria, VA 22308; JAMES R. CROSBY. 

Baltiinot- MD il20» HENRY R. CURRIN JR., 2802 Devon Rd.. DurlMm. NC 27707; LEE C CURRIN, R F D 1, Edenton, NC 27938: CHARLES W. Hunt«^vi!lt. NO 28078: OoVID C ORESSLER J 
BnmMl Cr St Mays Rd , Long Ditton-Sur. Great Britian: ALAN S. CURRIE. 6 Daggett Rd., Altleiiofo, MA 02703 PAUL M CUPS!.- 6 U^.^M S3012 WlLUflW J D!»<jf.>MCND 7.1.1» rorr«! A' 

I , ElKjMeH, NY 13760: CAROL CI 

liland. NY 11964; JOHANNEH DAME, Routes, PenacookN 037' t : D OAME, ,il4 R,dge«d, Ave , Statesv.lle, Nr 28f 77; GORGE « STt:' .N RICHAr;i. - -..N r Bo. .30^.^. r-of. El.-.'. ;. Souti. «tT..., SUSAN ' ••■.• ,\ S.iswold S, 

Oak Rd., Willi«rsl>urg. VA 23185: ANNE E. OANTZLER. 300 Kalm.a Dr , Columbia SC 292t^ DAVID E. DARLING, 3145 iilver Uke B'.', Cn».otte, NC 282il: WILLlAi- .".L '>. •, 7 :■ • ,ld Rf Baltirr.Ofe •0^1212 CONNiF: S DUPI 

Cuyahoga Falls OH 44224: SHARON J. DARRAGH. 1851 S Otex &.- . F«. Ladderdale. FL 333if SL'SAN E. DARRSW, 'ji Koyt Si , Otn^. CT VA 22151: ELIZABETH >. OU^REt, 16^ 'u.- - ,., - La^iaste v 1750;, : ^ R <rjKmi.f>. Pa^kei SU 

KATHLEEN DAUS, 280 Jacob St., Elmont. NY 11003: THOMAS A. OAVEY, 41 Hidden Meau- d, Weston, CT 060: '.'•l-.VN H. DAVID. 308 52:22 Fernd-le St., SpfingfieW, VA 2215:: SJ^AN L. OUTE. »i. H^lldale Dr , Ann Arbor Ml <«105: Ah'DR 

M*ado» Rd., Blloii, MS 39531: DIANE M. DAVIDSON, 15 Porter Rd. Usiu, Annapo is, MD 2140-: JEFFREY ! i^AVIDSON, 500 Devon Rd., Janaan. CT 06640: ANNE L. DUVOISIN. 60 WyandomefO 0,. Woooclift. NJ 07675: KUSUM DWIVEOI, 15 

HaddonMd, NJ 08033: MARION L. DAVIDSON, 450 W Lochwood. Websiar Grcves, MO 63119: STEVEN G DAVIDSON. 4326 Woodland Ave., *>'• KAREN L DYAS, Bo. 4f33 Rd -;, Browns Mills, NJ 0801' USAN E DYE 3460 E Floyd Dr., Den- ^r 

Dreiel H.ll. PA 19026: RICHARD R DAVIDSON, 8105 Rider Ave., Baltimore '.' ^ 21204; LEE A DAVIDSON, "301 Hisen.ary St., Chevy Chase, MO U, Beacon A-. .. — -► o, >,.^9: PE lER H DYGERT, 1000 C 95th Ave , Vancouver ■ « 98664 Ja,... 

20015: WILLIAM L. DAVIDSON. 203 Harlsdale Ave.. White Plains, NY 10tJ6: MICHAEL E. DAVIES, 29101 Wol' Rd , Bay Village, C N> 10913: ROrERT M DYKEf * St., Blauvelt, NU iOS) J "ICHAMD W EAKIN, 21 Scariei Oaks ! 

RICHARD A DAVIES. 2631 Mcdowell St., Durham, NC 27705: RACHEL MARY DAVIES, 228 Montice i. Ave , Durhi-n, NC 27,". ARHART, Rt 2 Bo> ?■ . tLIZAEEfH f.. EARLE, 'S Summer St , Sc Oartnouth 

OAVIES, 160 Sagamore Dr., Rochester, NY 14617; ANDREW C. DAVIS, nil Concord Rd, Anderson SC 29<21: COlLt-T . Sartram Grove. Gr . >•. EARLF IV, l<?n to. isl L-., o'> nsboro NC 27408: 

Lofton St., Lillington. NC 27546; DALE G DAVIS, 271 Streetsboro St., Hudson, OH 44236: DEAN V OaVIS, 1080 Carte'et Rd., on ."it. , NC 27S5->, EDWARD L EARNHARDT, 310 Inglaside Dr., Frodo.;...!^u,g. V.i 2?M)I, BARBARA J. EASI 

>T, 3303 Surrey R.J., burharr,. NC 27707; JAMES W. EAST, 4940 East End 

I. J. DECROCE JR., 1653 Springfield Ave., Maplewood, NJ 07040; CYK 
C DEGRAWN 1120 LongleatOr., Fayetleville, NC 28305: DOUGLAS M 

1; BRUCE J. 

Spring, MD 20904; DAVID H. DEACON JR., 25 Druid Ln., Riverside, CT 96878; BARBARA J. DEAU 4250 Gait Ocean Dr. 14j, Ft. Uuderdale, FL " EDWARDS. 145 Carter Rd., BikMi, MS 39531; JOHN P EDW,-,,>«DS JR., 1304 w-itern Ave., Rocky Mount, NC 278C1; JONATHAN 

33308: DONALD W. DEAL, 414 W Merchant St., Audubon, NJ 08106; JOHN L DEAL, 306 Woodrool Rd., Newport News, VA 23606; ANN C EDWARDS, 610 W Polo Dr., Claylon, MO 63105: MENCER 0. EDWARDS, 51 PoinNi^l S> rrharlesl.^n, SC 2*403: SHARON E. EDWARDS, 2 

OEAN, 6I4-B West Markham Ave., Durham, NC 27701; STUART L DEAN, 4 Homestead CrI , Short Hills, NJ 07078: CHARLES H. DEARBORN ILL, Sedgwick Ave., Bronx, NY 10468; SUSAN D. EDWARDS 105 Gl».in Wayne Rd.. Roanr,i Rapids. NC 27870: VALERA COLE EDWARDS. 1- 

5405 Holly Spnngs. Houston, TX 77027; MARIAN A. DE8ERRY, Box 692, Wasl^ r, -US A OE ARLO, 4428 First St. So, Alitngton, VA Fairburn Rd, Atlanta, GA 30331: ZENO L EDWARD' i " Piverside Dr, Washi.i;..on, NC 27889; MAURIC? r< EG • 15 wenue Foch, P 

22204; GARY D OECHOWITZ, 3507 Maryvale Rd., Baltimore, MD 21207 A , ^ DECKER ILL, 49 ; ' Tunlaw St.. Alexandria. VA 22312; 16. France: JOAN A. EGASTI. 29 Francine Rd.. Fr;i 4A 01701. GAIL EC 'STON. V i N Bucha-»n Durhar 1' 13901: WARREh 

MICHAEL W. DECKER. 725 Azalea CL. Plantation, FL 33313; JACQUELINE A COLA, 413 Pinehurst A» Salisbury, MD 21801; WILLIAM R, EGGLESTON JR.. 4 Hitching Post Rd.. W. Latiiy^ 906; VINCENT J. EGIZI JR . 1300 43 Rd St.. no Beree" f I 07047; MITCH 

DEERHAKE. 4901 Rembert Dr.. Raleigh, NC 27609; BRAXTON H. DEGAF'- -, . 00 Weil Rd , Ci-' ,ir,i!i OH 45242: DARA L DEHAVEN, EHRENBERG. 227 Willard Dr.. Hewlett. NY 11557 ;/ ' iHRENSALL, 112 Turtle Cove Ln, Huntington, NY 11743: SUE ANNE F JHHOFF, 

Greenwood Estates, Carrollton, GA 30117; DAVID R. DEHAAS JR.. 24 W.l.^ont Ave.. Washing PA < SUl: EUGENIA C OELAMOTTE. 3325 Clapboard Ridge Rd.. Greenwich, CT 06830: SANOEE u EICKHOFF, II Ueerwood Rd., Spring Valley, NY 10977; THOMAS W. EIDEN, 2 

Tanglewood Dr.. Augusta. GA 30904; DANIEL A. DELL OSA. 105 Hastings Ave., Havertown, PA X>8 .; RALPH M. DELIA R*TT.«. IR . 41 The Wrightsville, Wilmington, NC 2S401; ROBERT B. EIDSON, 6S12 Nmbold Dr.. Bsthec^^. MO 20034; DAVID M EISENBERG. 2296 Woodland I 

GARY C. DEMACK, 591 Kine ! , .ain. - -: 0:^ L P ' .ROW, 12509 Two Farm Dr., Sliver Spring, MD 20904; SUSAN G, VA 22901; THOMAS D. ELLER, Route 4, Abbeville, SC 29620; SAR/iH .LEV" Field Rd, Wilmington. DE 19806; J^ ELLIKER . 

DEMMING, 36 Trask Rd , Ptibody, MA 01960: MELIf'DA L <pST "aiewell Pike, Knoxville, TN 37918; SUSAN DENISE, 85 Mason Dr.. 3600 May St.. VI 

Princeton. NJ 08540; DONhi, " DENN ., Hammond Ave., Bet. Ml M DENNIS 'R. "» "'oore St , Thomasville, NC i7360; LEE Dr.. Athens. GA : 

S. OENNISON -- mouth Crt. Hiv •■ Holly. NJ 08060^ "kK W. .<■' :;: Redbud Rd.. lapel Hill. NC 27514; TIMOTHY P. DENNY. 512 G. ELLIOTT. 116 Ukri^" ■ ^ 'Ij 080? - :.LIS. /ay F Katu,. GA 30033; MICHAE' ELLS ""•":; ' ':• 

RedbudRd :• el Hill. NC 27514; D/ DESM/ C IL, 121 Cove Ave . Warw.i». Rl 0' 36: DONALD C. DETWEILER. 618 So Galena Ave., Morningsid* Dr., Lo , iU6: KO. . -ORF, • ..son Ap* ^ ■ .insda'e, IL 60521; VIVIAN M ELS J», 29 Lee 

EUGENE R. DEVINF jR., 461 No Main St. W. Bridgewat MA 02379; LESLIE A. DEt E, 3637 E 71rt St.,^Mlit. iK 46220; JOHN E tMLSt, 709 Agawim St. Ei.«l>eth C;Sy, NC 2790<3, PATRICIA W EMkET, 608 Bay Cl.«. Rd , (.;.!» Breeio, FL 32M1: ANNt S EMMENEGGER. 

DEWAR 11. 245 W K ig St.. LitHeslown. PA 17340: JO-,HUA '. DEWEESE. 2315 Mt. Ver n Ave., PL PlMian!, WV 25550; JOHN B. DIWOLF ILL 120 Kensington Bd., CirJen City, NY 11530; ALLEN MICHAEL ENDE, 8 Forge Lane, Cherry Hill, NJ 08034; MARIf.YN J. ENDRISS, Ht 9 Box 240, 

210 Pu^ Rd., V.ay,.: P« 19087: FRAN-'SCO Dl BELLA JR , Alameda Barao De Umoirj i79 At* 47 San p,„ Ir R-« I ! \JC11LE A, DIBELLO 145 Stalesville, NC 28677; ROGER A ENGEBRETSON. 1206 W Green Acres Ln., Mt. Prospwrt, i! 60056 GWEN M. Wf lELD. 600 W Dilido Dr.. Miami 

:-;:.VS L DICKS. 520 jd> St Nw.HIO y, NC 286^ ISt I D. DICKSON. 3014 Potomac. Dad s, TX 75205; DREW o FEW/ ^oiehl, 1320 Box 690 Sho««n«! Dr.. !.->'J. .^alis, MN 56649: WILLIAM F. ENRIGHT R im, NC i. .-. ERIC r. ENiOR, 1315 Vista Leaf 

Meadow L»ie. Yellow jprlnga, OH 45387; EUGENIE H. iHtPING R. 2349 Craig Cove. Knoxville, IN 37919; JAMES T. OIETCH, y62 0*»ood, Dr., Decatur, GA 30033; RICHARD L. EPLING. 23 E Washington Ave., i^e BluH. IL 60044, DAVID B. EPSTEIN. 22Jli Dandlfdge i?r . YcV. PA 

Parti For«»f. IL 60466 FRANCES V. C'ETZ, 2800 CroaMlail' C '. . 7, Durham. NC ;770'i- nAVIC S DIGGS, 6305 Boxwood R« BaWmcft. MD 17403; BRUCE A. EPSTEIN. 205 Webster Ave,. Bangor, ME 04401: EDWIN S. EPSTt!N, 401 Shenandoah St.. Portsmouth, VA 23707; MORGAN S 

21212: CRAIG S DILLMAN C604 RoMcroM H.. F«ils Church VA 2.HK3; BAHBAR. ,. DILLON, IBl Plank Rd., W»terbury, CT 06/04; <Ai-HRYN EPSTEIN. 825 Wildwood Rd.. Atlanta. GA 30324; BETTY J ERB. 501 Shalmir* Am., Philwietphia, PA ISIU: DAVID ERDMAN, B<,>x 338, 

P DILUJN, Va Quarters 107, LeilnftOti. KV 40S07; MARY t DINKINS 5r« Was.ilngton St., Plym-zuth, NC 27962; CAROL S D'SQUE, 2J4 Bridgeton, NC 28519: THEODORE L. ERDMAN, Po Box 338. Bridgeton, t<C 28519; DOUGLAS J ERICKSON, 106 Glenwood Dr.. Chattanooga. TN 

GroMway St.. Jamestown. NC 27282; PHILIP A. DISQUE. 232 S Fig I,« Lane. Ft Lauderdale ;L 33314; THOMAS t. &IT 1 MAR, 50 Winthrop 37404: JAMES C. ERICKSON. 1 125 Keystone. River Forest, IL 60305; CYNTHIA J. ERVIN, 316 Beechviw As».. Jamestow.-;. NY 14701: LINDA L, 

23364; ROBERT HARRY Dixr-, " ' " ?ale jh St.. Olfoi. NC 27565; JAMES J DOBSON. 722 North Shore Dr.. Mlltord. DE 19?" VARY E. Eshelman Rd.. Lancaster, PA 17601; JAMES R. ESKEW. 28 Holly Ri, '.Vh«ling, WV 26003: JEFFR: E. ESSrr. -Ham nR " --r 

Mamius NY 13104 DAVID f DONLON, 39 Th« Boulevard, Nev,!.- C .'«/0: BRIAN , -,<NELLY. 31 /.. " -Blon Plain, NJ FL 32074; CAROLYN A. EVANS. 4414 Jamestown Dr., San Antonio, TX 78220, DAVID L EVANS, 122 Banafielo Ave, Danville, VA 24541; 

074M: DANIEL H DONOVAN 7S Werlmus Pd t¥oodcliff Lake, NJ 07680: GLENN G. DO. )VAN, 110 St. Clair Ave., Spring lake. NJ 07762; CAROLYN C. EVANS. Morrison Lane, Laurinburg. NC 28352; ELIZABETH A. EVANS. 10 Rock Baach Rd , Rochester, NY 14617; Cl£V'EUND K 

BRAD I OOORES. 39 W Brother Dr„ Gr>«nwjch, CT 0SS3O: BRUCE H DORMAN JR., I 3 Box 312. Wilmington. NC 28401; RICHARD M. EVANS. 5109 Inglewood Rd., Lynchburg, VA 24503; DAVID S. EVANS JR., 380 Montgomery A»fc. Wynnewood, P.«. 19096; STEVEN A. EVANS, 

DORSET. 122 Live OM Lane Harbgr Wuffs. Lvgo, FL 33540; SANDRA K. DORSEY, 102 > fth St., Avon Park, FL 33825: JANH M, DOSS 101 1702 Cambridge Dr., Kinston. NC 28501; SUSAN D. EVANS. 2 Oxford Apts. Chapel Hill. NC 27514; DFBRA J. EVELAND, Ii04 Jacqulllna Rd.. 

MMrti Cir . Palatlna. IL MM?: KAREN L DOUGHERTY, 106 HKaboro Pirkway, Syracuse, Ny; PAT J. DOUGHTY. 3721 W Port Royrie, Phoenix. Valrlco. FL 33594; CLYDE P. EVELY JR., 7726 Exeter Lane, Columbia, SC 29206; CATHERINE J. EVERETT, Rt 1. Rotaanonvlll*, NC 27il7l: JAMES 

f ;;,~; 

)Y FURMAN. 210 Rodongham Rd . Gre« 

Wallingtofd. CT 06492; STEVEN 

Bo> 43S. Mjrl 
M* 02720: » 


!OBIN A GARMtS JR , 435 

one, Rd , Gienga^y Dr. N E. Atl 

r.ore, MD Worth, TX 76:09; J/ 


3 GETZE, 326 Cherry U 


FOLUNSBEE. 5941 Wymo 

ia Beach. VA 23452; JEFFREY BOTHE 



A GRACELY. 202 High 

altimote MD 21209 RICHARD T 


8: ERIC R. GREENSPAN. 200 Rogers 

U. GRIMES. 3185 Green Ga 

1, HOLLY L H£MSWORTH. 29 Club ljr,e Summit. NJ 07901, CLARENCE HENARO JR . 821 Temple 

Winston Salem, NC 2710«; CHRISTINA HALL, 1100 Lriie Shore 0' Chicago, IL 60611; JAN T HALL, 3537 Hamstead Ct , Our ^ 707. HENSHAW. Wood Rd . Morristown NJ 07960: ELLEN W HENSON. 949 H< 

UDA R. HALL, 314 Eatman Ave.. Eutaw. AL 3S462: ROBERT W. HAil r ^gell St . Batesburg. SC 29006; SUSAN J HALL. 4249 Sur.- ' . Port Rd . Bryn Mawr. Pa; KAREN HERBOLZHEIMER. 1S31 S Lehmann Une. A 

Arthur. TX 77«40: THOMAS C HALL IL, 2419 W Ave. J, San Angelo r . ',901; THOMAS E HALL. 11808 Henry Fleet Dr , Rockville. MO 20854; Wflmington. NC 28401: HARRV M. HERMAN III. 265 Mt. Paran Rd Nw, / 

WIIURO W, HALL IL. 11120 Sw 58 Court. Miami. FL 3315«; WIILIAV s HALL, 8500 Lynwood PI , Chevy Chase. MO 20015; MICHAEL L. Tjcson A? 85718; CAROL A HERRON, 4310 Colonial Pk Dr Pittsburgh, 

HALLAOAr. 4541 Biscayne Or Virginia Beach VA 23455: ELIZABETH H HALLER, 5125 Westpath Way, Washington, DC 20016, MARSHA L HERZOG, 401 Raocm.^ . ■• • 

HALLMAN, 213 N Star Rd , Newark, DE 19711; SCOTT G. HALLQUIST. 7800 Charleston Dr . Bethesda. MD 20034. DONALD P HALSEV, 43 Lm. --^ MO 63144, JOHN F Mti.., ... 

Hawthorne PI.. Montclair. NJ 07042; MLISS M. HALSEY. 1938 Walnut SI Camp Hill, PA 17011. NANCY A HALTOM. Boi 155. Denton. NC Jacksonvii,. ■ - • ' W ^t . Tulsa. OK 

27239; SUSAN HALTIWANGER 1212 Bacon Park Dr., Savannah, GA 31406 MARY SUE HAMANN. 1302 Beniamin Pkwy, Greensboro, NC 27408, JANET L. HIBBb. 

322 Danbury Rd , Greensboro. NC 27408, JUDY J HAMBURG, 1640 Ft Washington, Maple Glen, PA 19002; MonMord Ave., Inman, . i >:-i iUt B HICKS 1415 Summit Ave fayett. 

Oriole Dr , Norwalk, CT 068S1: JAMES G HAMILTON 1412 Riverfront Dr , Charleston, SC 294n-' MARILYN 22180; BILLYE L HIGDON, 71X So Watlerson Trail Fern Creek KY 40291 

)r, Orlando FL 32808: STEPHEN W HAMILTON 17510 Nw 49th Ave,, Opa Locka, FL 33054; .■. • M E HIGGINS, 333 E 43 St, New York, NY 10017: JULIA. W HIGGINS, B. 

Dr.. Meridian, MS 39301: MICHAEL O HAMLETT. 1207 I Green Oahes Lane, Charlotte, NC 28205; KATHLt [N A W.immjton. NC 28401: VIRGINIA W HIGGINS, Po Bo« 23052, Chdrlotte 

ley, PA 19067: ANDREA L HAMMERSCHMIDT. 563 Tory Hill Rd,, Devon,' PA 19333; KAREN M HAMMETT, 104 27601; ELI 

mta, GA 30305; LESLIE K HANKINS. 8 Beach Rd Cape Arthur. Severna Pk . MD 21146; SUSAN L HANKINS. 9 Walker Dr . Simsbury CT Cotorro Ave . Coral Gables, L i tM6; BARBARA A HIX. 17t> 6 , .y „ StamI CT T 3; R," " ' 
170. ELLEN F HANNA. 210 Highland Ave. Fairmont. WV 26554: JAMES B, HANNA, 3531 Nw 40 St Fort Lauderdale, FL 33309; STEPHAN D ^' '"'05; DEBORAH J HOARl 6436 Ensley U , Shawne* Mis "n. KA 6620 ; BARRY o "OBF>>M» 

Evergreen Ave . Spring 

BRIDGES HARRIS. 517 East End Ave . Durham, NC 27703; GEORGE A HARRIS, 276 No Elm Ave 

v\a Ave.. Jackson, TN 38301 JON j HARRISON, 400 E 3rd Ave , Red Springs, NC 28377 ROBERT W HARRISON. 104 N Mam St , G* SO*"'- HARRIET S. HOPKINS, 1013 Smith St , Salisbury, MD 21801: JOHN A. HORNADAY III, 38 Damien 

fnd NY 13045; BARBARA E. HARROO 2401 Pot Spring Rd,, Timonium, MD 21093 EDWARD A HART. 320 Bradshaw Ave , Haddonlield NJ EDWARD C HORNE, 3 18 147th PI . Whilestonc, NY 11357: CARLYN A HORNING, 4393 Robinhood Circle, W 

t: PATRICIA L. HART 114 Soulnorn Parkway, Rochester, NY 14618; GEORGE S. HARTLEY, 104 Sritania Ave,, Durham, NC 27704: PAMELA HORTON, 1103 Urban Ave,, Durham, NC 27701; DEBORAH E. HORTON, 614 Manning Dr, Ch,iri,itte, NC 28201 

iiiyTLEY, Boi 2758 Duke Ho.p.tal, liurham, NC 27706: GERALD C HARTMAN, 5909 Springfield Or , Washington, DC 20016 NANCY ELLEN Manning Dr , Charlotte, NC 28209: JAMES M HORTON, 4305 Regency Crt , Jackson, MS 392r, NA.N'.Y H HOF 

ro, 6820 Eleclra Dr Raleigh, NC 27607: CYNTHIA C HARTWIG 2912 W Central Missoula, MT 59801, KATHLEEN R HARWAHO, 17704 TN 37830; OZEY K HORTON JR , 110 Carroll Une, Betton, SC 29627. HENOEY HOSTETTER, 2204 Via 



0. Sparta. Nc: BONNIE L 

lanan Bl«d . Durham. Nc; SARA 

G JONES. Box 1215 Grad Ctr Duke. 

*. JONES. 21125 Shelburne 


L HUGHES. Rt 2 Bo> 5: 

t. Airy. NC 27030; ROBERT W 

I., Pittsburgh, PA 15217; M 

singlon Ave Montr. Que. 

L IRELAND. 4213 N 3S 

13 Green Atre Rd Towson, MD 21204. JOHN S. 32935; NEAL S. KAYE, 90 Stevenson Rd. 
■ton. VA 22207; CRAIG R IRISH 20135 Psriiside KEARNEY ILL, 7S06 Shadywood Rd., Bel 
IRVIN ILL. 3502 Gillon Ave., Dallas, TX 75205, KEATING. 34? Summit Rd.. Springfield, P, 

L. KAVSER, 27 Taconic Rd.. Osslning NV 10562; STUART D. 
.Y ILL, Meadow Spring, Glen Cove, NY 11542; GREGORY V. 
I Cave Rd.. Ridgefield. CT 06377; LEROY H KEELER ILL. 1527 

ONARD C. PA 19010, GEOHGf A. KtLSER ILL. 4800 Ni 
SON. 3625 WAYNE R. KEMPSON, 303 Sophia Ave., West 
« Cowden, KEMPTER, 1616 Chain Bridge Rd Mclean, 

B JENKINS, 1011 Magnolia: 

S Oglesby Ave,. Chicago. IL bOt>4:4. CANUACE M 



lassapMua NY 11758; ROBERT H L 

<t. 17804 Lake Rd . Lakewo 

5: CHARLES 2'103; BRUCE D LUEHRS. 2840 Ch 


•y Fi«ld. Pensacola. FL 32510: 

7: IBOLrA UPIS. 3h Chapel To 

H Chapel Towers Apt. D 

K) Pkwy., Metairio. LA ^Jl 

L UABRY. 688 Allgood Re 

1, CHRISTOPHER P URKIN. 176 Massachusetts Ave . Congers. NY I 

ester JACQUELINE R. MACK. 7 Parker SI 


ikview Dr , Highland HI 


L MARTORCLll. 30 Ever(rMll Una, Ocunporl. K 

:S 66208; GARr D. MELCHIONNI, 3 

.0 MARUMO 1»03 Vlrfina »ve . Durham. Nc: NANCV L MARVIllE. 57 Baliam Rd , BriarchH Mn, . N» 10510. BRUCE A MASER 105 Edg«.ood Dr.. Boom. NC 28607; MARGARET £. MELVILLE, Bo. 56. Garrett Park. MO 20766. HOWARD 

■n A.., Haddon H»» . KJ 08055: JAMES K MASON. 55 Eail End Ave . Nao Vof*. NY 10028. JOHN S MASON. 1607 Nw Ulh Ave . Ft Wichita. KS 67218; DANIEL L MENNIS. 3611 Milton Ave.. Dallas. TX 75205; DORANNE E MENV. 4922 Ellen 

■ dak FL 333II MARTHA R MASON. Va HoHXtal. Castle Poifll. HI J2511. RANDALL S MASON. 6412 Crane Terr . Bethesda. MO 20034: p MERCER. 612 Brookview Rd . Chapel Hill, NC 27514; DEBORAH S MERCER. 601 Northgate Ave.. WaynesI 

ripos Ct.. Augusta. GA 30904; PETER A MERTS. II 
e«ood Or . Pimfield. MA 01201; SUSAN M RICHARD MESHULAM. 15 Linden Terr . Baltimore. MD 21208; DEENA MESNICK. 19 Oak Terr.. Maiden. MA 

H A MAUOCK. 438 W Johnson St . Madison. Wl 53703: TAOAO MATSUHISA. 881 Cir., Durham. 27705. PAUL A MATTHEWS. 8998 MORGAN P MEYER. 573 S Lombard. Lombard, IL 60148 NANCY B MEYER. 27 Haviland Rd., Stanford. CT 06923 PAMELA A MEYER. ! 

el Rd , Millington, TN 38053; CHRISTOPHER L MATTIL 3708 S«i«lbriw, Bryan. TX 77801; JAY E MATTINGLY 5680sycamore Grove. Grandview PI . Upper Montclair. NJ 07043: LEE MEYERHOFF. Caves Rd . Owings Mills. MO 21117. LEON E MEYERS. 2132 Jefferson Aye . Ne 

iphis. TN 38117. OAVID R MAUERHAN. 502 Colony Court. Perrsyburg, OH 43551. ELIM8ETH SHERRILL MAUL. 1316 Belmeade Or . Olleans, LA 70U5; MARY E MEYERS. Po Box 296. Harkers Island. NC 28531. RENE LUCILLE MICHEL. 343 Oak Knoll Dr. Glondora. CA 9174 

sport. TN 37664. PENELOPE JUDITH MAUNSELL, 28 Lebannon Circle, Durham. NC 27705; NORMAN L MAURONER JR.. 852 E River Rd . LYNNE S. MICHELSON. 8001 Davis Drive. Clayton. Mo: RICHARD E MiCHOO, 529 Keystone Ave . Rivet Forest. IL 60305; JANE M. MICHOLE 

veport. LA 71105. OAIVD M. MAUTNER. 1107 Oak Ridge Dr. Glencoe. IL 60022; MARGUERITE MAUTNER. 3717 Huntington St Nv(. 5117 Marigny St., New Orleans, LA 70122: WILBERT L MICKENS JR., 7202 Erskine St., Richmond, VA 23228: THOMAS P MICKLE, 221 £ 2r 

iington. DC 20015, MARET G MAXWELL, 2721 Briarwood Place, Bethlehem. PA 18017; SCOTT E. MAXWELL. 1218 Wedgewood Or . Winston St.. Media. PA 19063; SUSAN MIDDLETON, 2201 Exposition Blvd., Austin. TX 78703: JAMES H. MIOKIFF. 740 E 42nd St . Hialoah. FL 3301 

m. NC 27103. THERESE A MAXWELL. 2808 Barber Hill Ln.. Knoiville. TN 37920 JACK R. MAY, 73 Stoneridge Rd.. Summit NJ 07901; JUDITH A MIGLIOHL 367 Hamilton Ave.. Trenli 

2126 Pete Mitchell Rd.. Germantown. TN 38038 LAUREN MILLAR, 150 E Long Lake Rd.. Bloomfie 
. 1800 Woodburn Rd.. Durham. NC 27705: BARBARA G MILLER, 2508 Oaklield Lane. Wilmin 

JOHN A MILLER 128! Covington Rd , Birmingham, Ml 48010; JOHNATHAN S. MILLER. 26 Rio VisU 

IILL M MCCARREN. 10015 Renfrew Rd . Silver Spring. MO 20901' MICHAEL A. MCCARTHY. 706 Circle Hill «d., Louisville, KY 40^07; DENNIS MICHELLE B MILLIGAN 3810 Albambra Crt., Coral Gables, FL 33134; ANNE E MILLIKEN. 148 W Hills Rd . New Cannaan. ct 06840; ELIIA 

; MCCARTY. 1115 Gypsy Une W. Towson. MD 21204; WILLIAM L. MCCARTY. 21(11 Crestmoor Dr , Nashville, TN 37215; MICHAEL A B. MILLOY. 9419 Rosehill Dr , Bethesda, MD 20034; GARY 8. MILLS. 701 Liberty Dr.. Thomasville. NC 27360: JO A MILLS. 2010UuraOi 

•ICCAULEY. 2748 Riviera Court. Oecatur. GA 30033: TIMOTHY P. MCCLAIN, 4403 Weldon Dr,, Templi- Hills MD 20031 MARY L MCCUNTON Rd Apex. NC 27502; SIDNEY E. MILLS JR 3208 Chapel Hill Rd.. Durham. NC 27707; DAVID M. MILLSAPS. 13551 Currie Circle, Santa An 

!04 Edgewood St., 8allimo<e. MD 21229. MICHAEL EDWARD MCCLOSKEY. 2848 Regency Dr.. /^-islon Salem. NC 27106: WILLIAM F 92705; NANCY L MILNER, Cso Te«aco Caribbean Inc.. Apartado 344. San Salvador. El Salvador; STEPHEN D. MILNER. Route 4, Waynesvill 

Fort Hunt Rd.. Alexandria. VA 22308: GAIL P. MCCONNEL. 373 Vanderbilt Rd.. Ashe-M. NC 28803. HELEN H MCCONNELL. 28786: WARREN E. MILTIMORE. JR , 4620 Yarmouth Ave. So. St. Petersburg, FL 33711; SCOTT J. MIL2ER. 4514 Regis Ave.. Durham. NC 

Lemoyne Ave . Washington. PA 15301; ROBERT R. MCCUTCHEON JR., 624 Orchard Hill Dr . MARK D. MITTELSTADT. 3249 Elmwood « 

)1 Del Largo Dr.. Fort Lauderdale. FL 33316 ALEXANDER J. MCDONALD ILL Apt 1601 1800 MOBLEY. Box 427. Troy. NC2737!: THOM 

lowbank Rd.. Georgetown. SC 29440; WILLIAM M. MCDONALD. 11 Fordyce La.. Pittsburgh. PA 15237; JAMES C MOFfAr 

. MO 63124. RUSSELL E MCDOW JR.. 2001 Forest Dt.. Waynesboro. VA 22980. ROBERT S. MCDUFFIE JH 325 Vanderbilt Rd. 17056: JAMES L MOHLER. 7273 Valley V 

NC 28803: WILLIAM D. MCEACHERN. 37 Qreanway S. Forest Hills. NY 11375; GEORGIA ANN MCELROY. Rr <t4 Sassafras Point, MOHR JR., 185 Beacom Dr.. Beaver. PA 16 

ille. IL 62025; WILLIAM J. MCEVOY. 1211 Piiarro St., Coral Gables. FL 33134; CRAIG D. MCEWAN, Stubim Rd R R 2, Granville. OH St. 2 1. Durham. NC 07076, DOMINIC F 

ATHLEEN L MCEWAN. 8221 Westhill Dr., Chagrin Falls, OH 44022: RICHARD E MCFAYOEN, 2005 So 85 An., Omaha. NB 68124; Houston, TX 77048 MARTHA A MONROE 

I L. MCGAHAN. 49 W Long Dr , Lawrenceville. NJ 08648: SHARON J. MCGARRY, 1723 Spring Creek Dr., Sarasota, K 32300: JOY V. TX 78213; STEPHEN J MONTGOMERY, 1 

-.. 2075 Shady Une. AltaVista. VA 24517; LOCKIE J MCGEHEE, 2075 Shady Lane, Altavista, VA 24S17; MARILYN R MCGEHEE. 9403 GREGORY J MOONIE, 40 Taunton Rd., Sc 

MCHUGH, 1981 Kimbevwick Rd., Media. PA 19063; FRANCIS H MCILVAIN JR . 2180 Twinbrook Rd.. Berwyn, PA 19312; JAMES MCINTOSH NJ 07661, QUINTIN M MOORE JR.. 1 

UMMid, FL 33803; MICHAEL JAMES MCKEARNEY, 20 Manon St, Hingham, Ma; JOHN C. MCKEE, 2411 Sunset Dr. Orang» TX 77630; fOY MOORER, Qtrs 6 Ft Myer, Arlingi 
THOMAS W MCKEE. 3 Guerard Rd . Charleston, SC 29407; MICHAEL W. MCKEEVER, Qrt$ 304b Moore Ave . Honolulu. HI 96553; ELIZABETH A. Pawnee Une, Leawood. NC 66207: R 

HELOSH JR . 18 Tuert Place. Upper Monlclair. NJ 0/043; DANIEL P MCMAHON. 456 Barton Dr.. Lewiston. NY 14092; DIANE W. 1111 Maple Cliff Dr.. Ukewood. OH 44107. WILLIAM S MORRIS, 347 1 

12028 Creekhave Dr.. De> Peres. MO 63131; WILLIAM JAMES MCMAHON. 515 3rd St . Nagara Falls. NY 14302; LAWRENCE G. Meadowbiook Or. Winston Salem, NC 27104; CHARLES E MORTENSEN, 2 

214 Upp Rd,, Malvern, PA 19355; JAMES J MCMILLAN. 3621 Beach Dr., Tampa, FL 33609; LINDA T. MCMILUN, 218 High Chapel Hill St. 16B. Durham, NC 27701; WENDY A. MOSHER. 627 Cayoga 1 

Holly. NJ 08060; MELISSA E MCMORRIES. 4411 Random Court. Annandale. VA 22003; JULIA E MCMURRAY. 129 Hillside Dr.. Towson, MD 21204; DONNA L MOTHERSHEAD, 2305 Lackawanna 5t Adei| 

AHTHA BRAKE MCNEELY. 825 Chester Rd.. Winston Salem. NC 27104; JAMES M MCNALLY. 8 Vantage Dr . Pittslord. NY 14534; Tecliwood Dr.. Columbus. GA 31906; BRUCE A. MOVER Po Bo. 5ri, Uke A 

laldeman Ave.. New Cumberland. PA 17070; OENISE A. MUMMERT, 1006 E Walnut St., Hanover, PA 17331; CHARLES R. 
9 Bo« 135, Salisbury, NC 28144; CHRISIiNE <.. MUNDIE, 901 Winhall Way. Silver Spring 

LINSCHAUER ILL. 303 Ruskin Rd . Eggerts- NY 14226: THEODORE L MURDOCK. 514 

I L MURRAY. 2540 Chap«l Hill Rd.. Durham, NC 27707; MARILYN M. MURRAY. 23 Drum PARREU, 422 Silion Ct.. Silver Spg. MD 20902; DIANA LEE PARRISH, 919 D 

Hill Dr.. Summit. NJ 07901; MARY E. MURRAY. 319 Summit Av«., Statn«ill«. NC 28677; TERRY A. MURRAY, 2S40ch*i)«l Hill Rd.. Durtiim. NC Hotn»»t«ad Rd.. Durtum. NC 27705; EDWARD J. PARRISH, 2I« Church St.. Kkim«»1II«. NC 272S4; ROBERT 8. PARRISH, 26 Miwood Court, 

27707: TIMOTHY M. MURRAY, 1360 Tr.p9 Un., Winnrtka, IL 60093; CHARLES W. MURTIASHAW IL, 1635 Ro.l>n Dr , Columbia. SC 29206; Jicteonvilla Be, FL 32250; JAMES T. PARSONS, 104 So Tampa Une, Oak Ridge, TN 37830; JEANNE E. PARSONS, 1913 UkMhore Dr., Chap.1 

JAMES C. MUSSELWHITE JR , Route «6 Boi 653, Fayetteyille, NC 28301; BETH S. MUZZY, 1910 Rathmor, Bloomtidd H. Ml 4«)3; ROBERT Hill. NC 27514; LINDA D PARSONS, 626 Fomfietd Cir., Wa»r>e, PA 19087; B< 

W MYATT JR., 439 Mcbain Dr., Fayetteville, NC 28305; CHARLES DAVISON MYERS, 1229 Pinewood Dr., Pittsburgh, PA 15243; JAMES 0. RUTH E. PARTIN. 2739 Spencer St . Durham. NC 27705; JOHN R. PASCHALL, 

MYERS, 6212 Perthshire Ct.. Bethesda. MD 20014; JANET L MYERS, 600 Glenayre Dr.. Glenview. IL 60025; JOSEPH T. MYERS IL. 7585 "d.. Sanda Pt U.. NY 11050; RALPH M. PASSINO. 31650 We.tlad>. Birminghi 

Fairtan. VA 22030; BARBARA K. NELSON, 2523 Wilboti St.. Durham. NC 27704; CUFFORO H. NELSON JR.. 218 Canterbury Rd.. WaatfieW. NJ Glen Co»». NY 11542. OtaOHAH J. PAUSTIAN, 38 Adams 0,.. Whippany. I 

07090; RANDALL J. NELSON. 3852 Shoreland Dr.. Elkhart. IN 46514; ROBERT RUSSELL NELSON JR.. 6107 Elizabethan Dr., Nashville, TN 37205; MARTHA R. PAVLIDES, J02 Forest Rd , O«ford, NC 27565; MICHAEL I 

ROBERT W. NESBIT JR.. 3933 Hawthorn Rd.. Ellicotl City. MD 21043; DAVID L. NESS. 5101 Ri»ar Rd., Bethesda. MO 20016; DANIEL J. PAXTON, !3a Brookside Ava. Cfeislul! NJ 07626; DAVIB K PAYLOR. 12J3 fullv«!« Ave Wech.inicsvillc, VA 23111; ANNA 8. PAYNE, 41 Hollow 

NEUHARTH IL, 2755 East Ave, Rochester. NY 14610: LAWRENCE M. NEWARK. 2708 Cattayle Run. Virginia Beach. VA 23452; EDWARD T. Tren Ridge. ' O; G' C > t-A E. 10 Mor' e Dr., Map., ood uONARD K. P> iL. 517 Jackson Ave.. Leiington. 

NEWBILL, 5815 CiDmwali Dr.. Washington. DC 20016; GEORGE C. NEWBY. 1406 Columbus Blvd.. Coral Gables. FL 331S4; KEITH P. VA i4450; DL . h. '' .. West P; "-• " FL i " ' I PEACOTr :«r Dr., Erie, PA 16506; MARK D. 

NEWCOMER. 112 Ario Crt., Sp»tanburg. SC 29301; NANCY L NEWHOUSE. 625 Manor Rd.. Independence. MO 64055: NEIL S. NEWHOUSE, PE* 6. '^ Mour .,n Lake- ,0^6: RO' ?0034; LESLIE D. PEAKE, 10132 

ELLEN G. NEWTON. 301 So Home Ave. 107. PitUburg, PA 15202; JOHN F. NEYLAN ILL, 780 Uncoln Ave.. Winnetka. IL 60093; JOHN B. 28138; GARY W. PEER. R< 2 Kctchei Rd.. Mt Kisco. NY 10549; GARY R. PEET, Quarter D N Island. San Diego. Ca; BRADLEY A. PEETE. 2018 

NEZLEK. 2600 Ocaarnida Rd.. Oceanside. NY 11572; AUCE A NICHOL, 1508 Ward St., Durham. NC 27707; JAMES B. NICHOLAS. 375 N Mariposa Lane. Billings. MT 59102; BEVERLY A. PEIRCE. 1243 Cliff Laine Dr., Cincinnati, OH 45226; ROBERT C. PEITHMAN, Woolawn : Allen, 

AWngton Rd., Clartu Green. PA 184U; WENDY P. NICHOLAS. 4S0S SUrr Jordan Dr., Annandale, VA 22003; DAVID P NICHOLS, 2721 Evans Rd.. Farmer City. IL 61842; SALLY M. PEKORA, 479 Greanway Ave,, Satellite Beach, FL 32935; ANN M. PELHAM. U Lakecr*st Dr.. Graenvitla, SC 

Beach. St. Petersburg, FL 33708; NANCY A NICOLAI. 58 Jefferson Ave., Short Hills. NJ 07078; ANTHONY S NICOSIA. 30 Und*i Place. Nulley. PELRINE. Box 2327. Apo San Fr. 96555; ROBERT D. PELTZ, 301 Barbara Rd., Middlalown, CT 06457; PAMELA S. PENN, 868 Brookside Dr.. 

NJ 07110; JAMES R NICOTERA. Bayne Rd.. Ridge. MD 20680; FRANCES S NICROSI. 1244 CSregory St . Monlgonmy, AL 36111, C C Toms River. NJ 08753; ROBERT R. PENN, 2620 Spring Lane. Austin. TX 78703; l££ R. PENNINGTON JR.. 9100 Kensiii(lon POwy . N. Chevy 

NIEORINGHAUS JR.. Boi 424 Route 1. Matthews. NC 28105; EDWIN R. NIEHAUS ILL, 861 East 5550 South St., Ogden, UT M403; ANTON P. Chase, MD 20015; GREGORY S. PENNY. 275 Grace St.. Pottstown. PA 19464: CORA L. PENSYL. 560 Putting Green In.. Sarasota. Fl 33577: 

NIELSEN. 705 Cadiz Rd.. Venice. FL 33596; MARK S NIELSEN. 1808 Fairfield. Gastohia, NC 28052: EDWARD NIEMANN ILL, 761 Redoak Terr,, KENNETH L PEOPLES, Rt 2 BoK 222, Roanoke, VA 24019; KATHY E. PEPPER. S4C Old Augusta Rd.. Greenville. SC 29605; SUSAN E. PERCHAN. 

Wayne. PA 19087; RAYMOND G. NIETZOID, 9 Center Dr.. Mountain Lakes. NJ 07046; PRISCILLA NIEVES. Calle 16 J-S La Mllagros. Bayamon. 2269 Mt. Vernon Blvd.. E. Cleveland. OH 44112; JOSE R. PEREZ. Po Box 293. Kln(t Park. NY 11754: PATRICIA M. PERCIVAU 5133 Mt. Vernon 

PUERTO Rico 00619; KATHY J. NOBLE. 904 PeMi St., Bluefield. WV 24701; SUSAN R. NOBLES, Circle F Ranch, Hulahurst, MS 39083; CURTIS Way, Atlanta, GA 30338; CATHERINE A. PERILED, 83 Holbrook Lane Manor, Briarclllf, NY lOSlO; DONE. PIRKINS JR., 11943 Wink. Houston. TX 

H. NOC 410 Helen Terr., Naplum, NJ 07753; TIMOTHY A. NOE. 4203 Woodbarry St.. Hyattsville. MD 20782; NANCY NOECHEL. 10412 Julep 77024; MATILDA PERKINS. 5101s 8th Apt 201. Arlington. VA 22204; VIRGINIA CAROL PERKERSON. 612 Rockford Rd.. Greensboro. NC 27408; 

Ave.. Silver Spring. MD 20902; DAVID B. NOLAN. 2310 So Fort Scott Dr.. Arlington. VA 22202; MICHAEL C NOLAN, 10904 SUnmore Dr.. KENNETH A. PEREZ. Boa 7599 C S, Durham. NC 277( 

Potomac. MD 20854; THOMAS T. NOLAND JR.. 60 Butier Lane. New Canaan. CT 06840; THOMAS C. NOLTE, 1441 Milford Rd. Columbia. SC PERLEE, 14 Clyde Ave,, Jamestown, NY 14701; BRUCE 

29206; CHERYL A. NONCARROW. 24 Colonial Rd. Morristown. N J 07960; JAMES F. NORCBOSS. 90 O*.;, ... Buffak). ' Y 1' s»NCYK. Uoe. Summit. NJ 07901: MARK L PERLMAN. 2210 Lurerna Ave. Silvw Spg, MD 20910; WILLIAM T. PERRY, Chf Uan Mission Brazil. Apo, NY 

NORRIS. 2713 Wexford Rd . Cohjmbos, OH 43221: MARGARET L. NORSWORTHY, 2005 Poly Dr., BIKIngi ">ir IRISTP U)RTH, 09676; OLGA L PESTANA, 6020 Sw 85lh St., Miami, FL 33143; DOROTHY M. PETEET, MARY N. PETER, 6904 Armat Or., BMheada. MD 20034; 

Galley Hook, Irvmgton, VA 22480; MILLIE P NORTHUP, 2460 Underhill Rd., Toledo. OH 43615; THOMAS .ON. Po B ,^ NC JOHN D. PETERSON JR.. 912 Woodbine Ave.. Narbwih. PA 19072; MARK F. PETERSON. 504 Drayton Rd., Oreland. PA 19075; MICHAEL I. 

THOMAS LEONARD NOVICK. 5426 Pawnee. Shawnee Mission. KS 66205; NITA L. NOVY, 215 Courtdalo Ave., Courtdale. PA 18709; PAUL H. W Lake Shore Dr., Wilmington, NC 28401; JOAN H. PETO, 36 Momingside Cr., Little Falls, NJ 07424; CHARLES D. PETTEBONE. Rt 2 Bay Head 

25 St. Ughthouse Pnt.. FL 33064; KATHLEEN CONNOR, 10300 Oemocney Ln., Potomac, MD 20854; EDWARD V. O'CONNOR JR.. 3716 NJ 08226; MARY J. PETROWSKI, 7009 Knighlswood Dr., Charlotte. NC 28211; DORIS E. PEW. 701 Marion S<|ue>« Rd.. GMi«yne, PA 19035; 

Larchmont Dr,. Annandale. VA 22003; THOMAS H. OHARE, 1332 Johnson St., Menio Park. CA 94025; RICHARD M CONNOR. 2409 Palisade ROBERT J. PEYSER. 2411 Univ. Dr.. Durham. NC 27707: ROBERT M. PEYSER. 336 Concord St.. Haverhill, MA 01830; ROBERT B. PEYTON, 15 

Ave.. Union City, NJ 07CB7; BRENDA SHAW OGRADY, 1U7 N QuantKO St., Arlington, VA 22205; THOMAS B. OBARR JR.. 20 A Werierstrasse. Grey Oaks Ln.. Greenwich. CT 06B30: DANA S. PFAFF. 435 Fr.nklin Ave., Cuyahoga Falls. OH 44221; DANIEL C. PHELAN. 143 Englewood Ave.. 

4701 Rhynem. Gr; PAMELA G. OCALLAGHAN. 7042 Prestonshire Lane Dallas TX 7S225; GALE M. ODONNELL. 361 N Boston Ave.. N. Buffalo. NY 14214; JEAN A. PHELPS. 5009 Scaradsle Rd.. Wishingfr>n. OC 20016; MARGARET B. PHELPS. 3415 Hope Valley Rd.. Durham. NC 

Massapaqua. NY 11758; JAMES E. ODONNELL, 421 W Point Crt., St. Lou.s ' ^SERICK W DONOGHUE JR.. 2000 Dihvorth Rd. W, 27707; JAMES G. PHIUPSON, 2912 Groentree La iho Falls, .J S3401; C:;,-t!! ES V. PHILLIPS ILL, 7301 Venice St,, Falls Church, VA 22043; 

Charlotte, NC 28203: MARGARET A, OCONNELL. 4 Partridge Hill. Upper t.^- -lit " 458; MAr ^ A REILLY, 3315 Garlwd Dr., Falls DONALD E. PHILLIPS. Dow Quimica Dr Brasil. Ca.. Postal 30( 7. San Pai .• -j-il: LYNN A. PHILLIPS. 2006 Brookshire Rd.. Akron. OH 44313; 

Church. Va; ROBERTS. DATES. 1504 Pioecrmt Dr.. Albany. GaJi705 .[ RIEN. . Lane. Hillsdale, NJ 07642; LYDIA A. OUVER J. PHILLIPS JR.. 1660 Mcfariand Rd. P.liourgh ••• 16: RO.l PHILLIPS JR.. 12514 S Petersburg. Chester, VA 23831; MARK 

OLDS, Po Box 2525, St Croix Critiansted. Us Virgin Islands, fHI: WARREN W. OLDS, 93 Gardner Ave., Waldorf. MD 20601; JOHN M OLESIOK Maedowood Crt.. Huntington. NY 11743; EDWARD B. PIECZYNSKI, 50 Mill St.. Pittston. PA 18640; CARL F. PIEPER. Rt 1 Box 37, Spruce Pine. 

234 PInegrove Ave,. Rochester. NY 14617; MARK B, OLINGER, 7015 Maple Terrace, Wauwatosa. Wl 53213; MARY J. OLIVE. 712 North Church nC 28777; JOSEPH M. PIEPMEIER, 2017 Stonetiurst Dr.. Nashville, TN 37215; KARA MELODY PIERCE, 77 W Waehington, Chicago, IL 60602; 

St.. Zebulon. NC 27597 JUDITH A. OLSEN. 1250 Ay-shire Ave.. Orlando, FL 32803; JANET L. OLSEN. 233 Arabian Rd.. Palm Beach. FL 33480; ROBERT A. PIKE, 83 Palmer Ave., Stamford, CT 06902; MARILYN CECIIE PIKE 376 BMChmonl Dr., New Rochelle. NY 10804; ETHEL A. PIGGEE, 

OL*FH. dim; HollvwoodD. Mf ,. 05; CARON SUE OLSON. 1806 E Cedar St.. South Bend, IN 46617; DONALD F. OLSON, 1706 Ramsey St, Fayetteville, NC 28301; LYNN E. PILLINGER. 107 Led'-"« -k, Aiken, ST 29«)1; ROBERT B. PINCKNEY, Rt I Box 137. 

2437N90-.> ' /„. r LVER ON, 4501 Arlington Blvd « 320, Arlington, VA 22203; DONALD R. O NEAL. Rt 1 Box Awendaw. SC 29429; DIANA D. PINCKLEY, Po Box 38. Jamestown. T> jSS* "OBERT ,. PIN LA, 35 Oriole Way. Huntington Stat, NY 11746; 

525. Willijrr • 27892: BRIAN ONE -lUEar >o<J Cir. Spartanburg, SC 29302: ROBERT K. OPPENLANDER. 3944 Powers Ferry Nw, DONALD P. PIPER, 9929 High Dr., Leawood, KS 66206: SUSAN > t»«4l>N, 606 Ov "ir ->«. Oreland, PA 19075; JOANNE H. PIRATZKY. 

Adanta. GA j;.^-. „NITA ,i, ORD . 182 Clover R- -imp Hill, PA 17011; SCOTT S. OREN. 4963 Birch Ave.. Rockford. IL 6U11; ERIC A. 64 Logan Lane. Wyckoff. NJ 07481; DAVID C. PI^H'" il9 Ri. ^,e R- Jlariett- .• JESSE C. PITTARD, 5200 Old Hillsboro Rd., 

ORISTIAN. 3108 Laland St, Chevy Chase, MD 20015; ERIC J ORITT, 624 Meadowbrook Dr., Huntngdon Valley, PA 19006; SUZANNE S. OHKIN, Durtiam, NC 27705; CHERYL ANN PITTS. Boi <' en Alpii . :C 2> , JOHN C. F M Hilltop Dr.. Trumbull. CT 06611; LYNNE D. 

2924 AHen St. Allentown. PA 18104; JANICE C. ORMAN. R D »3. Quakertown. PA 18951: JOHN 0. ORR. 185 Beaver St.. BMver. PA 15009: PLATT, 1417 Russell St.. Charlotte. NC 28208; LA A'CE D PLESS. 4< Stone St. Oxfo CA 30267: MICHAEL D. PLONOWSKI, 206 Palm 

JOHN H. ORR. 1401 Pennsylvania Ave.. Wilmington. DE 19806; MARIE E. ORR. 137 Canoe Brook Pkwy.. Summit. NJ 07901; MARY A. ORR, 936 Dr„ Thomasville, GA 31792; WILUIM 8. PLOTKIIi 6 Littlefield Rd.. Nem Ctr., MS 02159; LAUREL C. PLUMSTEAD, 23 Ave. De Ll Sapinere, 

Wellington Rd,, Winston Salem, NC 27106; DEBORAH A. ORRILL, Saclantrepeur Nalo, Apo, NY 09667; JIU EDWARDS ORVALD, 200 Seven Oak Brussells 18. Belgium; LOUISA B. PLYLER. 2828 Heyward St, Columbi.! SC 29205; WEYI.AND D. POE. 410 Normal Ave.. Normal. IL 61761: 

Rd 15a. Durham. NC 27704; MARY C. ORY, 5213 Neptune Way, Tampa, FL 33609: PAUU A. ORZANO, 27 Londonderry Dr.. Greenwich. CT JOHN-W. POFF. 400 Baldwin Ave., Rndlay, OH 45840: GEORGE R. POGMORE. Rt 1 Box 259. Middlefield, CT 06455; KENNETH E, POGASH, 55 

06830; GARD W. OTIS. 5715 Ellis Rd,, Ypsilanti. Ml 48197; CANDACE BROOKE OTTE, 6335 S W 44th St, Miami, FL 33155: BRIAN E. OTTO, 257 Collinwood Rd,. Maplewood. NJ 07040; SHERRY L, POGMORE, Box 259 Main St., Middlefield. CT 06455; STEVEN R. POINTER. 21W-622 22nd 

. 33579: EDWIN H. PAGE JR.. 2209 Huron Rd., West Lafayette. IN 47906; 210 Lakeside Av... Pitman. NJ 08071; JENNIFER J. PORTER. 2244 N Woifsnare Dr.. Virginia B«ch. VA 23454; MARY L PORTER, Box 547, 

MARY ELIZABETH PAGE, 1525 Cloncurr, Rd., Norfolk, VA 23505; DOUGLAS Buda. TX 78610; MICHAEL 1. PORTER, 6820 Woodridge Dr„ Norfolk. VA 23518; ROBERT S. PORTER. 3091 Street Rd.. Warrington. PA 18976; 

HL, 2050 Loren Rd.. St. Paul. MN 55113; PETER S. PAINE. 2350 Greenwood. Wilmette. IL 60091; RALPH f. PALAIA. 1028 Mason Ave.. WINSTON ALLEN PORTER JR.. Armstrong Lane. East Uverpool, OH 43920; MARY L, POSS, 2371 Collins Rd., Pittsburgh, PA 15235; TRACEY L, 

I Hill. PA 19026; CHRISTIAN E. PALETTA, 822 Hawbrook Rd., GlendaK. MO 63122: MARC S, PALEVITZ, 2708 N Jefferson St, Arlington, VA POTTS, 2328 Dorset Rd., Columbus, OH 43221: JAMES W. POU. 2195 Nellie Rd., Memphis, TN 38116; ARTHUR T. POULOS. 752 Palmer Rd. Rd 

?: STEPHEN F. PALEVITZ, 2708 N Jefferson St, Ariington, VA 22207; WILLAIM E. PALIN JR.. Box 637. Bedford, PA 15522; DAVID L. I. Dover, NJ 07801; LISA H. POWELL. 3609 Hathaway Rd., Durham, NC 27707; SARA G. POWER, 2357 Dabney Terr,, East Point GA 30344; 

ER, 8 Pinewood Lane, Mountain Lakes, NJ 07046; HOLLY A. PALMER, 6100 Brooklyn Bridge, Uurel, MD 20801; NANCY A. PALMER, 106 JOHANNA S. POWERS, 2734 Sharon Rd„ Charlotte, NC 28211; NANCY A. POWERS, 16936 Lake Ave., Lakewood, OH 44107; TOOO M. POWERS, 

Inson PI.. Oak Ridge. TN 37830; FRANCES P. PAPA. 3241 Williamsburg St. Sarasota. Fl 33581; CHANTAL S. PAPEZ, 50 Prince Arthur Av, 2734 Sharan Rd., Charlotte, NC 2821 1; ROBERT I. POZNER. 4028 Anne Dr.. Seafofd, NY 11783; ROBERT S. POZNEH, 2 Aklare Dr., Asheville, NC 

Toronto 5. Ontario, CANADA 94115: PAMELA G. PAPAS. Aparlado 80165. Caracas. Venezuela; JOSEPH E. PARENTEAU JR.. 806 E Meedow 28804; HARRY W. PRAHL ILL, 4151 Douglas Rd., Miami, FL 33133; RICHARD T. PRASSE, 8110 Chagrin Mills Rd., Chagrin Falls, OH 44022: 

ound Brook. NJ 08805: SUSAN HARRIET PARIS, 69 Crovm Point Or , Hyde Park, MA 02136: SUNG S. PARK. 4 PInacreel Hosp.. Beckley. MARY SUE PRATHER. 396 Sunset Dr . Meadville, PA 16335; THOMAS B. PREBBLE. 3817 Parkwood Dr., Grewisboro, NC 27403; KRISTEN J, 

WOl; ANDREW C. PARKER. 39Quinn Rd.. Briarcliff Manor, NY 10510; BETTY L, PARKER, lOOl Ibis Ave., Miami Sprinn, FL 33166: DAVID PRECHTER, 420 Cochran Dr. Nw. Atlanta. GA 30327; JAMES H. PRENTISS, 1540 Summit Dr., Charleston, WV 25302; STEPHEN M. PRENTISS, 

RKEH, 111 Plneereel Rd. Durham. NC 27705; JAMES E. PARKER. 2035 Englewood Ave.. Durham, NC 27704; JAY T, PARKER, 19 Ruberry 6165 Hamricll Dr., Memphis, TN 38117; CAROLYN ANNETTE PRESCOTT, 3232 Luther Rd„ Durham, NC 27705; BETTY L PRESSER. 1367 Birch 

•vittawn, NY 11756; JON W PARKER, 124 Soundview Terr., Northport, NY 11768; LINDA L PARKER, 503 Pirker Dr., Clinton, NC 28328; Hill Rd., Mountainside. NJ 07092; RACHEL PRESTON, 97 Walnut St. Blauvelt. NY 10913; GEORGE H. PRETTY IL, HI Laurel Lane, Williamsburg, 

IN 0. PARKER JR., 608 Sackman St., Brooklyn, NY 1 1212; ROBERT S. PARKER. Box IS, Mt. SunapM. NH 03772; THOMAS J. PARKER, VA 23185: CEIL E. PRICE. 5840 Gultton » 44, Houston. TX 77036; CHERYL S. PRICE. 401 E Trinity. Durham, NC 27701; STANLEY J. PRICE ILL, 

>6 Eakle Dr.. Rock Hill, SC 29730: TIMOTHY EDWARD PARKS, 2203 Pike St, 4344 Brownsville Rd., Pittsburgh. PA 15236; THOMAS M. PRICE, Rt 7 Box 643, Ldie Placid, a 33852; WILLIAM G. PRICE, Rt 7 Box 643. 

VI 00820. LEIGH QUARLES JR . Po Boi 214. <>p>,iri;v,llc. AL 30146: ALLEX L OUIGLEY ILL. 52 So 
)3. FREORIKA H QUINN. Gibson Ay«-. I4arrafa' ^-i Rl 0?88? JOHN P (JUINN '*ti, ijnsdoon Dr . 

II B«rWey Dr . Clonanoaga. 

41501. PAUL A RAUBACH. JR . 3029 Fifth Am . Baltimora. MD 21234; WILLIAM S RAVENEL. Li>>«^y ' 

™soms, VA 23874; ROBES. I. HOLNirK, 655 Lakevw. Rd.. Orange, CT 06477; BRUCE W. ROMEO. Pin. Knoll, 
1739; KATHLEEN M ROONEY, 38 Tanafly L,r., Nm Hyde Park. NV 11040; JUSTIN T. ROSCO, Av lpiran(a 901. San Paulo. 
IROL G ROSE. 1470(. .j ;.rjr Dr Centreville. VA 22020; RUSSELL A ROSE. 400 WHsonia Dr.. NashviUe. Tn; RICHARD NEIL ROSEN, 7 
ge Terrace. Dover. N \; ANN F ROSENBERG. 2206 Kenoak Ro«), Baltimore. MD 21209; DAVID A. ROSENBERG. Po Boi 7, 

VA 23890; ANTHONY D ,i . NTHAL. 2638 Midway Road. Decatur, GA 30030; HARRY V. ROSER. 609 Burtie Trail. ThomasviUe. NO 
KAi^LES C ROSS, 1402 Ellei.t, >d.. Towson, MD 21204; DAVID L. ROSS, 2811 Cheliaa Cir., Durham, NC 27707; KENNETH C. ROSS, 
Hilltboro Rd., Ch4>el Hill, NC 2, -it -. ORTHO B ROSS ILL, 2050 Stonebridge Lane, Charlotte, NC 28211; STEPHEN W. ROSS. 420 E 
Wadostoro, NC 28170; PATRICIA <• ROSSITER, 34 Hawthorne Dr., Summit NJ 07901; RANDALL J. ROST. 7317 Spring VaHey Rd.. 
< 75240; PATRICIA S ROTH. 18W> Lane. Bannockbum, IL 60015; DEBORAH ROTHMAN. 525 Bradford Pkwy.. Syracuu, NY 


0, BYRON 0. RUSSELL, 23 Collblers Grmn, New Canaan. CT 06840; DUANE J. 

New York, NY 10035. GERALD A REGAN. 1007 Bryant Ave., Now Hyde Park. NY 11040; ROBERT N. 1339 N ;*>.y;; • « , Nartierth. PA 19072; AL.' ' ' RUTLEOGE. Rl 

tingdon Valley, PA 19006; PAUL M REGAN. 148 Turrell Ave., South Orange. NJ 07079; CAROLYN W. Lake BluH. IL f •. , "RT S RUTTER. 17 -y Hts . Burl 

anglewylde. DEBORAH T SABIN. Weu'.dnn Inst. Of Sci . Rehovot. I 

Norfolk. VA Hagys Ford (.■< North. Penn Valley. PA 19672; EMILY M 

Ave , Pittjborgh, PA 15217, JAMES A RETTER. 26 Eastover Rd . SUmford. CT 06905; DEBORAH SALLEY. 36 Georgetown Green Charlottesville VA 22901 JULIEr. . „.. Georgalown Greefi, Charlottesville, VA 22901; SCOTT W. 

32751; BONNIE L REYLE. 6 Edgewood Dr . NwolHirgh. NY 12550; BENJAMIN J REYNOLDS. 1430 SALON. 4935 Old Mill Rd.. Ft. Wayne IN 46807 PATRICIA F SALTE*; 1 \/^ ~. nClrtlgM Dallai. TX 75229; ALAN R. SALTIEL. 9 Brookfall Rd., 

I G REYNOLDS. Mammoth Rd . Pelham. NH 03076. CURTIS L REYNOLDS ILL. 36 Old Farm Rd. Edison, NJ 08817; JOSEPH A SALVATO 796 Weymouth Ct Circ ,-« )H S„;40 JULIE K. SAMET, 6 Langlwrne Rd., Newport N«>s, VA 

. 6127 Darnell. Houston. TX 77036. KENNETH B RHINEHART. 3171 Flanders Or . Winston Salem. SANDERS, 3702 Cedar Elm, Wichita Falls TX 76308 CHH SUE f. SANDtKS 45 !, sc-way Terrace PrincMon, NJ 08540; JAMES G. SANDERS, 

00 Eagle Rd , Wilboughl>y, OH 44094, WILLAIM MCLEOD RHODES, 7 Guerard Rd, Charleston, SC 318 Engleman Ave , Buriington, NC 27215 BARBAR ' -ANDERSON 8601 Whipps -"id Rd., Louisville, KY 40222; TERESSA I. SANDERS, 206 

Durham, NC 27707, CRAIG W RICE, 481frB S W Caldew, Portland, OR 97219; DAVID T RICE, Upland Rd , Decatu , GA 30030 GEORGE E SANIJ CH 98 VKilworlh Ave Sc ,-sdale NY 10583; WILLIAM C. SANDO, 465 Chatham Dr., 

HARD T RICE. 2550 WarwKk Rd . Wmslon Salem, NC 27104; ROBERT EMERSON RICE, 7715 Kettering, OH 45429; EDWARD P SANDS 2601 V.u.«H(-rtM Ave L ncoln NB 6*^,2; JON A SANFORD, 11 Dorothy PI , Lynbrook, NY 11563; 

BRIAN RWt, lOOPopp, St. Mor«,c,. A2 85540; MARSHALL H RICH. 229 Pnncrton Or, Costa CAROL C SANFORD. 118 W Tryon St H.ll.boroug.. Ht 27278 ROBERT T SAf.rt LI 15 Sunset Dr. Lyons, NY 14489; RICHARD L SARDELLA. 

C SAUNDERS, 3705 Lynnfio'd 

'A 24503; JOAN E. SCHLACHTER, 750 W Conway Dr., 

Miles Standish Rd.. Virginia Beach, VA 23455' J> 

ER, 9 Maplewood Dr., CkMter. NJ 07624; CHRISTINE A. SCHOENBERG. 
N Ottawa Ave.. Chicago. IL 60631; PHYLLIS N. SCHOLL. 728 Mackan 
. Burlington. NC 2721S; MARK SCHOTT. 418 W Markhvn, Ourtiam. NC 
!6 48th PI . College Park. IMj A)740: DAVID E ROBINSON, 6302 Hollins Dr,. 27701; ANN L. SCHREIBER, 9902 River Rd . Newport News, VA 23601: LEE D. SCHREPPLE, fl N BIRCH RD. APT fiff . Ft. Lauderdale, FL 33304; 

SCMW0T2ER. 145 Rockingham Lane, Mcmurtay. PA 15317; EDGAR C SCOFIELO. 37 Park Une N.. Attanta, GA 30309; CATHERINE I 

e . GafdMi City, NY 11530; LOUIS 0. SCOTT, »27 Terr, Lane, Lake Charles, lA 95126; lOUISE PRICE SMITH. St Mar 
2; RUTH W. SCOTT, 5CI5 *h,te Oak Rd , Charlotte. NC 28210; SARAH E SCOTT. Rd . Wilmington. DE 19803. MARTIN W 

M C. SEEFELO, 9 C«lar Lane, CsppaRur NT 10514; LARRY M SEGALL, <.o5 Swann A« , Tanpa. FL 33609; A, SMITH, 
32 CiiK» St.. Venica, FL 33595; NORMAN SEID, 447 N Shelby St., Greenville. MS 38701. FREDERIC JOHN SF!DLrR, SMITHW1C^ 

32006; SUSAN C SEWELL, R«d 2 Boi 145, 2*401 S«»£N C SOOERSTROM JR., I 
4; FRANCIE SEYMOUR. 1633 Rioer Une D. MICHAEL A. SOJA. Hannuin Rd , Gra 

'6 Berkeley Ave,. Petersburg, ¥A 23R03; KEVIN A. 

J SHAPIRO. ArundelRd. Wayne. NJ( 471. i 509 N Mapl. S! . MG SPAiJ 22 Marianne Dr Se, Momngside. MD 20023, REEO SPANGLER .;iC)8 Wj -glon A 

108332. ALICl INETCUTT SHAW. 5400 l^ an B. . rta. . : „.AW 06820; ROBIN D SPECHT, 316 Summit Ave., Summit. NJ 07901; Su .h .SPE'DEL. 2 

0; JANE E tHA. 935 River Rd . Youngstown. NY 14174 LINDA ^ ,HArt Boi 784, Pittsboro. NC 27312; CONSTANCE L SPEIOEL. 4312 Silth Ave,, Temple PA 19560 MARK H SPLLIMAN B6 Deal 

A 50208 V »^r ; > 3. sHAW. 12500 Dunlap St. Apt 661, Hoiiston. TX 7703',, JEFFERY H. SHEETZ. Locust ^"^^ ''""1^ "' Sihier Spg.. MD 20903; THOMAS L SPEROS 122 Shoe Haei St , Maitoh NG 28364 
SHEFFIEl Jge Coach Lane. Cooperstovrn. NY 13326; VICTOR B SHLLBUHNE ILL, 10 Vincent Crt . J-^ 295V 1. MARGARET A SPIGENER. ' harkjti. .C 28207. JOHN W 

SHELDEN 'err . Kansas City. MO 64113; JFFFREYB. SHELDON, 67 Whitcoak Dt. South OtdnK. . v\>0. CYNTrf '^ SPRAGUE. 11534 E Ric 30; BFVtRLV FRANT2 SPRINC 

>i 264, Hurteriville. NC 28078 GWENDOLYN L. SHERRILL. Rte 1 Boi 278. Hunlenville, NC 28078 lONNIE R. SHERRUO, ^°"'*' ** *»«•• Omaha, NB 68124, LAURA L STAFFORD, >23 H Paiton St., Alexandria, VA 22304, jJDITH A STAFFORD, 523 Pail 
Knojville, TN 379?0 AlAN D SHERWOOD, 759 Madis'^i St . Neenah, Wl 54956; CHARLES R SHERWOOD JR r. Ko^ppel AleiuniJrta, VA 22304; DIANE STAHL Ifi Gure Ct , Bay Shore NY 11706; JACK PRESTON STfiNSACK. 2710 Cooksbury Or . Durhj 
11550. FRANK G ' i-.viO<-- GA 30575. KENNETH A SHIFRIN. 9018 Walden Rd. Silver Spring, MD 209u., 27704; JOSEPH R STAINS 42 H.-i Conemaug 5909; DONALD W STA'.EY. ^'2 East Ave . Batavia. NY 14020: J, 

k)205, MARY A. --.rtOFrNER. Greentoia- St . Uberc, NC 27298; WILLIAM LEE SHOEMAKER. 3220 E Joppa M., Baltimore MD ""^ 21101. ELISABETH M, STANGLR. 13 Wilson Ridge Rd., Da,. en, CT W.:,20; V 

L SHORE ILL, 2115 W Club Blvd-. Durham, NC 27705, STEVEN E SHORE. Box 640 A Rt 2. Rural M.ill. NC 27045; WILLIAM P GORDON t STANLEY. One Marian Lane. Warren, NJ 0706Ci; PtIER J. STANLEY, 

Boi 157, Bethany Beach, DE 19930; MARGARET E SHOULTS, 416 Dewey Or , Annapolis, MD 21401 JAMES E SHOWEN, 697 "-L S<" ^^ Stanleytown, VA 24168; THEODORE A. STANLEV 540 Gardner Di 

Charleston, »YV 25303; AlVIN H SHRAGO, 805 Hur.-in St, Rock, Mount, NC 27801; RICHARD PAINTER SHRYOCK, 6213 "«<* Plymouth. NC 27962: BEVERLY C. STARKS. 1462SprngRd Nw. Y/ashmg 

Bethesda. MO 20034; JAMES f SHUEV 851 Wilk.nion. Shreveport, U 71104; LEWIS SHULMAN JR., 6404 Powhatan Ave . "C 28630: EDWARD H SfARR JR . 6 Summit Ridge, Burlington VT OMOi CHI 

08. PAUL WAYNE SHULTS, 3S4 N CatH-li Or,. Charleston, sc 29407: MARTHA G SHUMATE, Rt 1 Bo, !?3 No Wilkesboro. NC " STAUFFER. 2254 Fair Oaks Rd . Decatur. GA 30033; CYNTH.A s : u 

CA SIAFACAS. 47 Ch Moise r. ■ '- f -/a. '- WILLIAM B SICELOFF. 1039 Rockford Rd, High r, : ■:," ,-7262; JOHN M, STAVEROSKY JR.. 1014 Spruce St.. Pott%!-v.- PA 19464; T")r' * ' A 

>. Boi 3/4. East Flat -.^k, NC 28726: ROBEROEAU DUNN SIMMONS. 

lockdell Ln . Birmingham. Al 

PETROLEUM, Awali Bahrain, Aral 
Pittsburfh. CA 15238: BRYAN L 

7. DENNIi CHAIG SMITH. 13 Tolx.»,i!an 

Mcneilly Rd., Pittsburgh, PA 15226; WENDELL M. TOMLIN, 

Ln.. Mclean. VA 22101; NANCY K. TOMLINSON. 5113 New 

i.. Richmond, VA 23225: ELAINE TOMPKINS, HardscrabWe Rd., North Salem, NY 10560; JANET E. TONKA. 2032 So Akin Dr.. Atlanta, GA 

i«h St.. Arlington. VA 22207; CHERYL S STROBER. 3 Nancy Court. Manhasset, TORREY JR . Bo> 343. Republic. PA 15475; FRANCIS L TOSCANO. State Park HIth Cnt, . State Park. SC 29147; GALE NADINE TOUGER. 7 
ngton. DC 20016; JOHN L STROTT. 4810 Topping Rd . Rockville, MD 20852; Hawthorne Dr., Cherry Hill. NJ 08034; NILL V. TOULME. 7010 Tyndale St . Mclean. VA 22101; DIANE C. TOURET. 803 Paradise Way. Sarasota, 

ILTING, 703 Louise Cir , Durham, NC 27705, RICHARD L STURM, 4381 Harris Charlotte. Nc; JANICE TRAWICK. 6718 Kennedy Lane. Falls Church. VA 22042; LAURA TRES. 60a4 Lasalle Apt 10 G. Durham. Nc; CAROL P. 
m Spring Dr . Annapolis. MD 21403; WILLIAM C. STURGEON ILL Rd 3 Christian TRESOLINI, 2545 Center SI . Bethlehem. PA 18017; ROBERT D. TRETTER. 16 Squire Hill Rd.. No. Caldwell. NJ 07006; GENE A. TRIGGS JR., 

lawnee Miss.. KS 66208; JACQUELINE M. TUCKER. 46 Hill Dr. Oyster Bay. Long Island. NY 11 
od. CO 80237; MICHAEL D. TUDEEN. 6539-7th Ave. So. St. Petersburg. FL 33707; JOHN DENN 
5013; MICHAEL R TULLY, 602 West Nobles. Midland. TX 79701; STEVEN H. TULSKY. t 
7; LANCE E. TUNICK. 1175 E Broadway. Hewlett. NY 11557; ELIZABETH P. TURBYFILL. IIC 

■.a'o-l.j. Tokyo. Japan; WINGATE 
^lord. DE 19973; PHYLL 

oresl A»«. Wheaton. IL 60187; MICHAEL G TAYLOR ' . m. , Wilmington. DE IS t A A. TAYLOR. 771 Valley Rd., VANDERWILT. 1208 Upper Ridgeway Road. Charleston. WV 25314; GPEGORY N. VANIGLIA. 123 Skyline Dr.. Cold Spring. KY 41076; LYNN A. 

>R. 610 Miller St. Dalton. GA 30720; SUZANNE E. "/i ^3,< 606 Nebrjiu St., Spindala. NC 28160; WILLIAM D. TAYLOR, 113 Greyfriar 2B53 Roswell Un«. Columbus. GA 31906; NORMAN A. VARNEY. 4 Point Woods Rd.. Darien. CT 06820; CHARLES R. VAUGHAN JR.. 2312 

>urgh. PA 15215; ELLEN J TCHORNI. 50 Balsam Lane, Pr.nceton NJ 08540; GARY R. TEACHWORTH, 836 Silvw Lake Rd., Fwton, Ml Culver PI., Anchorage. AK 99503; ELIZABETH R. VAUGHAN. 2224 Burroughs St.. Richmond. VA 23235; CONSTANCE E. VAUGHT. 702 N Main 

inesville. GA 30501. DORIS E TERRY, Rt 2 Boi 60. Norlina. NC 27563; TIMOTHY WAYNE Tt i307 Walnut Dr., Old WjOo. ,Vlonroe, NC 28110; SCOTT C. VIEBRANZ. 49 Eton Rd.. Larchmont. NY 10538; STEVEN L VIEHL, 11 Townsend Bh(d.. 

INIFER W TESCHNER. 112 Secor Woods Une. Perrysburg. OH 135'= "FITH R. THACKREY, K W Rosemary La.. Pawling r. .64; JAY C VINCENT. Boi 458. Van Horn. TX 79855; MICHAEL P. VINCENT. 6826 Glen Cove Dr.. Clifton. VA 22024; WILLIAM M. 

1D0LPH P THAMES. 1704 Pepperidge Dr.. Orti'-to FL 32806; JEFFRL ; ^ THARLER. 844 West St.. ■~.~--<~ MA VINCENT, acut,^ 3, 2-'302; DEBORAH F. VINING. 479 Broadway. Long Branch. NJ 07740; BRUCE N. VINIK. 20 Poplar Ave.. Deal, NJ 

i. 13 Donald Rd . Suffern. NY 10901; BETSY B THAfCHER, 1282 Paces Forest Dr , Atlanta. GA 30327; , 4 07723; CHERYL A. VISSEj: ". ./ North St.. Hinsdale. IL 60521; ERIKA J VOGEL. 2 Wellington Downs. Scotch Plains, NJ 07076; JOSEPH V. 

ulsa, OK 74105; DAVID E THOMAS, 206 Harris Ave., Panama City. FL 32401; OAIVI; I. THOMAS. 616 Glei . VOGEL, Rt 1 Murphy Sch .. Durham. NC 27705; STEPHEN P VOGEL. Rt 1. Durham. NC 27706; JAMES R. VOLKER, 13 Washington Ave., 

HT A. THOMAS. 7502 Jervis St.. Springfield. VA 22151; IDA M. THOMAS. Route 1 Bo, 338 G, Leicester. NC 2is74«: Andovar, MA 01810; JAC^ . VOLLBRECHT. 995 Singing Wood Dr . Acadia. CA 91006; LYDIA H VOLLMER. Chicken Valley Rd.. Locust Valley, NY 

Woodcllff Cir S«, E Grand Rapids. Ml 49506; MARGARET A. THOMAS 2013 Forest Dale Dr.. Silver Spring, MD 11560; BRUCE L. VOR Bf. "9. 2714 Middleboro Lane Ne. Grand Rapids. Ml 49506; FREDERICK VOSBURGH. 30 Brookside Dr.. Manhasset. NY 

15 Frederick Une. Clendale. MO 63122; PETER H THOMAS. 2528 Strealsboro Rd., Hudson, OH 44236; SUSAN J. U030; TIMOTHY JAMfS fJPA S Ariirj. - ., Arlington. VA 22202; KAREN L. VUNKANNON. 517 Delaney Rd. Nw. Huntsville. AL 

Id . Cary. NC 27511; TAMARA N THOMAS. 1632 4th St. Nw. Hickory, NC 28601; KENNETH TKOMMF.N. 70 Stony 35806; MILTON M WACH ijjrgh. PA 15217; CHERI RILEY WADDELL. 1023 Beriieley St Apt D, Durham, NC 

12; DEBORAH R THOMPSON, Box 6590. Baltimore. MD 21227; ELLEN M. THOMPSON. 6530 Dykes Vj.- 27705; FRANKt VAOOFLL. 1023 Berkeley St A; -ham. NC 27705; JAMES D WADDINGTON JR.. 56 Sparks Ave., Pennsville. NJ 

SON. 6 Dalys Park. Londonderry. Northern. IRELAND JAMES G THOMPSON JR . 544 Stever 've . r> .... '.8070; INEZ S WA, ksan Bluff, Allenhurst NJ g: '.VIN W WADFORD JR . Rt 1 Bo« 246. Chapel Hill. NC 27514; GEOFFREY H. 

IN. 251 Bal Bay Drive. Bal Harbour. FL 33154. MARGARET G THOMPSON. 61. Se « •' .Je. FL 334i WAGGONER. 7 Brunswi k Rd.. Montclair. NJ 07042: INE A WAGNER. 1450 Avenida Magdalena. Apt 5a Santurce. Puerto Rico, &: 

92 Blve Hill Rd , Gt Barington, MA 01230: MELANIE A THOMPSON. 800 Crestridge Drive E. Atlanta. GA 30306. JULIANN M. WAGNER, 5 Beach St., Farmingdale. NY 1 . . GEORGE R. WAGONER JR.. 7402 Westfield Rd.. Richmond. VA 23226; John Y. 

IC 27705; SCOTT A. THOMPSON. 1 Princes Gat. Flat 10, S W 7 Iqj, London, Gb; WILLIAM L. THOMPSON JR., 13»0 "*- •-'■>■ '004 Via Zumaya, Palos Verdes, ES Ca 90274; S 

Fl; PATRICIA ANN THOMSON, 12137 ParHer Dr , Chesterland, OH 44026; PHILIP W THOR 4042 Belford St Sw. Wi ,avj, Rd.. Asheville. NC 28804; BETSY F WALKER. 251 

Hialaah. FL 33012. ROBERT B THORNTON. 1 

*LLIS, 388 W Shore Dr., Wyckoff, NJ 07481; MICHA 
E Cassilly St, Springfield, OH 45503; JAMES V. WALS 
1.. Bethlehe 18018; DOUGLAS P. WALTERS. 2 

lecK NV 1102:; SUSAN WANIASS. Coll Virgin !s.. St. Thoma.. VIRGIN IsUndt 00801; HAUIE A. WANNAMAKER. 1484 W. Highway 96. St. Moovw Ave., South B«rd, In 46615; LEE X WILUAMS. 104 WlndmoK Dr , Ch3ttaim>ga, TN 37411; tINOA S. WIIJ.IAMS. 7549 Jmt^rmMl Rd,, 

mit. MN 55112; JULIA L. WANNAMAKCR. 14fi4 W Highway 96, St Paul. IMN 55112; RICHARD C. WANTOCH, 2«S3 Clydndale Court. Ocsaniida, Richmond, VA 2322S; MARGARET G WiLLIAMS, 704 E ForMt Hilli Blvd.. Durham, NC 27707; R08{f!T lit WILLIAMS. 1 Celtic Wood Dr.. 

. ir-2. JOHN P. WAPPETT, 3 («aadow Dr.. Qlen Falls. NY 12801; JOANNA G WAP'l'^l f'C '■ NC 27705; CATHERINE f. Wiim.njion, NC 28401; RUSSEU R. WILlta>(?- ,«»*»« A' 8*"'"":=; Sunneyvale. CA 9408V: SARAH I. WILl'^VS, '144 Mcr'^-.^,- Hr,r;tw. TX 

.Arri. ?°08 Mary .d Dr.. Wilmiogton. NC 28401; CLARK ANDERSON WARD, 117 E .-. -.• %• Se .>• -,«i06; CYNTHIA I V^ARC, 106 77025, SARAH C. WIUIAMS, 306 Graid- .f > aynes.. iS-'86. STEVEN D. WIIUAMS 20 .. irt, r GrM>, ,. r . OiSX); 

. 07M,; KATHERINE E. WARD rAb Juniper La.. Somerv.lle. NJ 08876 LESLIE ^ WA-^D Ef'S B.-.., A ■■? . Icrthesda, MD 20034; LUCIA A. WIUIAMS, 710 Volti St . GrMnsbOn, NC 27.U,- ., , 'OM, L. *' '.I'Mi, 546 Clovtlly U , D.WQO, ft. :<,:3o, wiLLMW S WILLIA • J 2310 

•A?.J. 494 River Hd.. BogoU. NJ 0/S03 MARTHA =. WARP Post Offitr Bo. i. Wulsar Ky..--gsangnamo, ^oraa; TAMARA L WARDEIL. 698 Olford R.O, Columtus, OH 43221: YOLANDA DEBERRY W.L. .VIS. 9t 7 Br. J56, FayrttevillB, NC 28306; DtBORAH C. ».iLL;A(iSSON. 20 AittlM 

.nds9> Rd.. Carreji* PA 15106; JENNIfER L WARLICK. iUl Doswooc C^, Kingston, TN 37763: GEORGE S. WARNER, 3109 Strirford Dr.. Pkwy., Savannah. GA 31405: JOHN A. WILLIAMSON, 7800 Pawna., Pr*ri. VHiage, KS 66208; MICHAEL C. WIIUAMSON. »13 Po.ns«»lto Rd., 

retrscoro. NC 2740S; fiOBEH' H. Wa;,NER. f.«4 F.m Spring Rd. P'rtsburgh, PA 1^243; WILLIAM C. WARMER. 403 Atlantic Ave.. Rocky Mt. Nc NI•^llxwrnE Bch , FL 32951; Jama* r Willing- t Jr., 408 Palntree Court, W.nfc' "ar*, f< 327«, CHAR'.SS W W!U !S, •5582 Rivwview Rd., 

78C;;C.iLVINWARI^EN. R'lBoillfc C.^J Grcv- NC 27,?:i: .HOltiC HE.^ D ^VARREN. Verdt Vdley Scl, Sedona, AZ 86336; O^'jRG. ft 3,eck. .'J s "Mi; HI' » ' -C R -ILL , ' '-. rharieilon, SC 29401; DONALD .^IU.IS. 4»H 1— -ui.. . •■,:■> \ ■.3.^ 

it. Apt 301, Fairfax. .A i20.1S; SAMUEL S. WATERS IV, 1009 Brittany hills Cr . Dayton, OH 45459; PAMEU J. Ave., Durham, NC 27705: uERNARD F. >^IL50», ba> 499 Radio Hb., Wythevii..', . • 24362; CELESTE R WILSON. 252' Sevier St. nurtiam, NC 

Forest City, NC 23043; ROBERT S. WATKINS, 3! 7 Kent Rd., Charfottesv::.-, VA i2903; SHEILA W WAT.;|NS, 507 27705; CLIVE G. WILSON, 4847 L»;igi'-uK, : n.. Chevy Chase, MD 20015, DAVID A. WILSON, 1408 Margaratte Ave., Towaon, MD 21204; EDNA M. 

163: DOUGLAS J. WATSON, 1295 Inverlieth Rd., LAe Forest IL SQ045; STEVEN J WATSON, 5401 Sc 98th St. Hales WILSON 6503 The Parhway, Aluandria, VA 22310; KRANCFS ». WILSON. 2011 West Club Blvd., Durham, NC 27705; JAMES 0. WILSON, Po 

£ WATSON, Robin Dr., Monroe. NC 28U0; HAr'RlETF D. WoTFS, 5ft:7 N Prospect Rd., Peoria, IL 61614; DAVID H. Boi 631, Aberdeen, MD 21001; MARGARET L WILSON, 811 ParKwood Ave,, Charlotte. NC 28204; MARK T. WILSON. 928 Yadklnville Rd., 

Norfolk, VA 23518; SUSAi4 L. WATT3. 948 iWar^uerite Cr . vVi ist"- :;alem NC 27106; PETER W WAXTER, 4712 Mochf,rllle. NC ,^7P7«; MARY M. WILSON, 9818 Culver St., Kensington, MD 20795; MICHAEL E. WILSON, 100 Bellwood Lane, Spartanburg, SC 

I 21210; PETER B. WEARS, 5 Slyvan P1 Durhem. NC 27701; BC'NY SCC7T WEAVER, 2240 Mecklenburg Ave., 29302; PETER C, WILSON. 4st Johns Rd., Baltimore. MD 21^10; RICHARD WAVERLY WILSON, 2S00 Wade Hampton Blvd., Greenville, SC 

3LD A. V'EAVER JR.. 4901 W. Fp .ettevi!,e ."J. CoclOs : Pa.*, GA W337: SCOTT C WEAVER, 6314 Newburn Dr , 29607; ROBIN LINKE WILSON, oil Andefson St, Durh«n. NC 27706; JOHN E. WIMBUSH. 326 Garfield St Apt 2, Danville. VA 24541; BARRY E. 

mAS 8 WEA\ ^.R, s'75 Clayton Pd , St ..^uis, HX- n\2'. W'.LAIM 3 WE»VER, 705 Yarmouth Rd., Raliegh, NC WIND, 106Clyd*ton Crt., Nashville, TN 37205; SCOTT L WING, 2722 Spencer St. Durham. NC 27705; CHARLES D. WINGATE, 111 Warwick Dr., 

;iNE P WEbSTER, 3 8 vilL .^pts, ' jrh., , Nr^ ^/70: STANI.cY N WEBSTEr*, Route 2, Mebane, NC 27302; JOHN I Ashland. VA 23005; MICHAEL A. WINIT:»KY, 1S40 Watson Rd., AUngton, PA 19001; PETER A. WINKELMAN, 7053 Wolftree Lane. Rockvllle, MD 

i Ave P^ttsturgt., PA 15217; MARK (,. WECHSLER, 1017 Jefferson St, Mckeesport. PA 15132; PATRICIA 20852; ETHELYN U. WINN, 120 M^e Hill Rd,, Huntington, NY 11743; CONSTANCE WINSTEAD. 4507 Bordeaux, Dallas, TX 75205; PAULA. 

h Rd.. Belle Glade, FL 33430; ELIZABETH S WINTERHOFF, 242 S, Bird Rd., Springfield, OH 45505; KURT D WINTERKORN, 69 Pinnacle Rd.. PIttsford, NY 14534; CAROL A, WINTERTON, 

WEEMS, 14.?- B^sam Cout, For-s' Hill, MD 210ixV :-A«i;'«TT D. WEIOMAh. .621 .mystone R .. Charleston. WV 25314; ERIC R. WEIOMANN, 200 Maple St. Haworth. NJ 07641; JAMES D, WINTHROP, 8112 Sagamore Rd., Leawood, KS 66206; ROBERT B. WIRTH, 17 Crest Dr.. Meluchen. 

!031 F Rrrk '.prgs Rd . o.oe, C . 134 • *\ .F! .■ T list '>t. M.^irri Beach. FL 33140; JONATHAN J WEINER, 3606 Blair WISIACKAS. 4 Richards Grove Rd, ()u*er Hill CT 06375; ALETA C. WISOR, 431 Appletree Rd. Camp Hill. PA 17011; CLAUDIA A. WITHERS, 

Horm-r„ >,,. 73069; BRJCr " .:.INS.EIN, i'-V,,ll„„ C„.. :. zl,-\ .<t^ . :4, .Ij/?; PLTEtH. V/EIR, 569 Urkin Lane, Montgomery, AL 36i09; Lajolla, CA 92037; GRACE M. WITTER. 550 MorgaiT St. Oboriln, OH 44074; GEOPP-E r. WOELFEL, 1405 Washington Blvd.. Huntington, WV 

MARGARET H WEISKOTTEN, 2513 Webber St, Sarasota, Ft. 33«79; v'ULlE A WEISMAN 3 $h«k» Lane, Norwalk, CT 06851; RObERV r r.JiSS. 25701; LINDA DELL WOFFORD, Po Bo< 156, KartoMll'i S"! 29550; LEONAPl, C W^'HOWICH. 155 La;.sdowr)e Rd., Charlotte, NC 28211; 

19! Rd, Apt 507, Pmsburfh, PA 1S220: ROY E WEISS, 459 E. Shore, Rd., Grsal Neck. NY 11024; ERIC P WEIT2 f. - . i, a e, DOtJGLAS C, WOLF. 1969 Mccoy <<:' , K .r:.'^<cn WV ^'i.'ul; -> LEN C. WOLF. 380 Mckinley Ave., New Haven. CT 06515; JOSEPH G. WOLFE 

NorwaK CT 06851; RICHARD J. WELCH. 508 S Chestnut St. Kawame. IL 61443; ROBERT 0. WELCH, 4103 Tidewater Cn.. .\u,^-:^'i\ ' « JR., SOir Oihvd Dr,. Durham, *-r. 2770/, MiCnKEL M, WOi.FE, ;^293 Titan Rkiga, Decatui, GA 30032; SUSAN L. WOLFF. 1813 E Dean Rd,, Fox 

22309: LINDA R. WEIAER. 1809 TiRon Dr., Pittsburgh. PA 15241: CARTH P. WELBON. 24201 Woodhald Rd.. GaiUwrabbrg. MO 20763; POUaUkS PiXn.' Wl 5J217 TES.,1.. 8. WOLFF, 524 (,• A..*,- Or., Eev^rty Hill, C- aOIlO; JoY M. WOIFSON. 2-f2 Waverly Ave., East Rockaway. NY 11518; 

E Boston Av. , Monmouth iL 614S2; SHARON E weitS, Ivy Hill, HaMan, KY 40831; SUSAN J. WELLS. 31 Dalton Rd , Hotbr«.-V, fciA 02343; U ., u>iv;'S, V 245 D» VK. 1 I^CCD JR , Bos 72«, B-yson Cit- JC 26713; JOHN C, WOOD, 7905 Neuson Crt,, Richmond, VA 2322S; 

WADE » WELLS, 200 »« Imevll'e PA .: 7 SARAH M. WENDT, 5406 Noble Ave., Richmond. V* 23222; VALERIE t WFN2EL, 3131 PHIU IP C, MOOX) "«e 4 nioi ■<;*■ '■«..' t C '7597; SUSA1 E WCO;;-Rr., Us Army Engr Div Nedif., Apo New Yoric. Apo New Yori<, NY 

Green Oolp.-r'n Ln., Napl ' '3< 10: LE G E Z'NGER, 307 Hayward Mill Rd, Concord, MA 01742; ANNA a WERNER, 170 E 83st, New 0901S, Drsi.i!»„J W WO JDCC,-' ■ ;. d" ., New Yor<;, NY 1002b; THOMAS M. WOCDFIN. 3721 Austin Ave , Waco. TX 76710; JOHW 

»or-K HI 10028; WENC. ' -'.7THLIM t, 42 Ciorlal Part. Or , Pittsburgh, PA 15227; JOHN A. WESSELS, S3 Sireh la . Greenwich, UT *. WOODfORv, '" 7 S, ,ng I ■,■ , 19809; POUCF K. WVJDIN, 393C. Ceflarbrush, Dallas, TX 75229; JANE IV.. WOCDJ, 72i 

06MO- Ar.NA M. WESS -R, .3 Jam. Dr Ch i«lon, SC 29407; CELESTE L w"-"r- 1511 Shannon S- -rs, C- -.r^tv , SC 2920f,: A.. I e..' H, PA IW • . •- W. .S, 1320 ..c-,- V •-. , Mrt. Roanoke. V« ■'40:5. ArJTHUP F WOODWARD Jk , 115 No Van 

ALISON M WEST, 4000 I 1 , Aril 1, V* /07: HENRY M WEST, Rt 1. Nic' KY 40356; LINDA E Wl .«^i Upton St. Bur*i St.. Rockville, Mr 2^850; ■ • l' W-" 239 ;?-...•''"- Pi, -k^o,,. Nj OJS.J; V.'ARREN D. /"OOSWARD, 615 No lake Trail, 

60201; STEVEN J, WESTG ;..OSw I St, ,„ton Beach. FL 33435: DEAN E W 149 Country CI ,. Chlc.,u His ■!. 60411: AL 36609^^ RA ■ vi-OyTiN, 5.-V , i-,wr-.,. ' le. NC -,-1 1 RtlErCA « Wl'OlEN, W«! Lake Klls, Newton, NC 28658; JOHN L 

MARV J. WESTON. 434 Hoin..» Od Pittstrld, MA 01201: ROBERT CHARLES WESTON. 42? 6 Old Bridge Rd., Andalusia. PA 19020: JOriATKAN WOOTEH JR . iSfi? Crelt Dr., Gr,^.-'i-- '■'.C 27834 DAVID •- rtORD, 3l0 Vk- v.rgt ,1 Ave., Wyoming, OH 45215; FPANf. W:>RIAX, Rt 3 

P WESTON, 861 Nw 172 Terr , Miami, FL 33169; BARBARA A, WESTRY, 1305 10th St Nw 301, Washington. DC 2000!; LEAH K. WEYERTS. .303 Colonial Tr. P« , HillsftOrOugh. NC 272/9: KATHERINE WORLD, ■ 2 ' (. . , Oi jrd l ir\ NY 1^127; VIlHAHi A. W..^ RE L, 539 -;ir> St, 

Gnive Dr., tWU.. TX 75220, - WHTLE^ 504 Orange St, RIeigh, NC 2760S. B A E WHEELER, I i Bolus > .^ .;,—■■••., NC V: J „*c " ,.■ 7 35 V^ .'• ,VA,.. „ ;>A' I .Lr Wl ENN Rt ' R-i»boro, N^ .:, ■;7;, DEBORAH ^ WRIGHT, 

WHtfLit,5Pli Lake Ln,, , CN 3681 .; RONICA L WHEELER, 646 45'i it, iwport News, VA : GILF ,- ar '. --H; -~H0 . .-.odSt-.- "•!., IRLCE ■ ,k..^HT, 3 ; ' J Av- , Indi. .apol : ■>< 

f 00- Bridges ".d, : mors, CI LIDA «HT ^ fB 4 Bridges Rd, Somers, CT (X^^'I; ETH W. WHITAKf ir Bri. ELI 21 Ch T^ELY, oun ysi <! ' :. Lou ••>, t 1:1 IRY b *R -HT 

06071, ANDRrW R WHITE. M25 ih.nandoah b, . Kno.ville, TN 37919; BETSY A. WMlTE, 1208 Ave. De L.mardolier. Geneva, Swrtierland; jR . .15 Beaver Valley Rd.. Ashcville. NC 28804. HILLSMAN L. WRIGHT, 535 Haynes, Memphis. TN 3«m: JAMtS L ,.i HT 016 orth . , 

BRENDA S. WHITE 3501 3rd Ave N, St Petersburg, FL 33713; DEBORAH A WHITE, 33 15 112th St, Corona, NY 1 1368; DENNIS M. WHITE, Atheboro. NC 27203; KATHRYNE L, WRIGHT, 107 Foxcross Hd,, Spartanburg, SC 29301: MARIE C WRIGHT. 1060 fort -u iter '>., CSirloston, 

319 4th Am , Huntington. WV i'Vnn fVaVH A. WHITE. 11418 Rolling House Rd., Rockvllle, MD 20852; EMILY WHITE. 9206 Harrington Dr., SC 29412; MARILYN K WRIGHT. 427 Cr«* Rrf.. V.enna. Va 22180 MAURICE W. WRIGMT. 1906 House Ave Lurham, I ■■- 27707; 

Potomac MO 20854 JAMES G, ■ ILL. .18 S Mj,rison Ave,. Gary. NC 27510; JEFFRE/ L WHITE, Route 2, King, NC 27021: MARTHA L. SCOTT W. WRlG'^ .« Valley Asnv, ,i. h". 2880a, SHARON WRIGHT, 1906 House Ave,, Durhar,-, NC 27707; SUANNE I Vi'KJHT, 

iss Caine.l,-c 5---a«lt, Time ; Lie BIdg,, Rockefeller Ctr,, V 

RICKAR3 K. YARDUMIAN, 95 Pamridge U., ." U.L. i^ "A 15»28: 

C. YARDLEY, 65 Paul Revere Rd., Needham, M; 
i>^;..d Lr Charlotte, NC 28211: CATHERINE A. 

org, MD 20760: ALEC WIGHTMAN, 117 E 212 St , Euclk), OH 44123: ANN M WIGHTMAN, 4332 Lilac Rd , S Enclid, OH 44121; DAVID Dr Apt 1, Cavalier, NO 58220; JOHN S. YOUNG JR. 2 Chas Ridge Garth, Baltimore, MD 21204; KING M. YOUNG, Calle Los Dolores, T 

, 1019 Berkshire, Ann Arboi, Ml 49'04; TIMOTHY C. WILCOSK', 700 Ne 17th Way, Ft Lauderdale, FL 33304: DEBORAH S. WILCOX, DC Honduras Ce:.tral America; MARK A. YOUNG, 8 Maplewood hd., Asheville. NC 28804; RUTH T, YOUNG, 1549 Fairidge Dr., Kin 

iw Hampshire, Silver Spring MD 20904: SANFORO ^ WILCOX, Woodmont Route 1, Crojot, VA 22932; CLAUDE C. WILD ILL, 5716 Bent 37664: WILLIAM A YOUNG, 17 Sunset Hill Rd., Simsbury, CT 06170; RICHARD C YOUNGKEN, 82 Oakwood Or,, Peace Dale. 

Id.. Washington, DC 20016; PELHAM WILDER ILL. 2514 Wrightwood Ave.. Ou.ham. NC 27705; RUSSELL, L. WILDMAN IL. 651 Beech MARALEE T. YOUNGS. Birch K.oll. Columbus, NJ 08022; PATRICIA t Yi INGS, 18 Maple Ln., Pennington, NJ 08534; SARAH C. ZAt 

irleston. WV 25302; SANDRA N. WILES, 12904 Scarlet Oak Dr,. Saitharsburg. MO 20760; BRUCE MARKSON WILEY, 23 N Cou.itry Club Lundy Lane, Larchmnnt NY 10538, JAMES F. ZAHRN, 2 Redcllffe Rd,, Greenvli. ■ SC 29607; KAREN MAE ZAMAN, 4804 Kilkenny PI.. F 

(a.hington St , Denver, CO 80203; TIMOT 

VA 23175; ANNE E WILLIAMS, 279i Dover Rd Nw, Atlanta, GA 30327; ATHANASIA MARIA WILLIAMS, 1011 Palisade Ave., Palisade, NJ 07024; 13027; DOHAlD W ZINTER, 85 Southern Hills Cr , Henrietta, NY 14467; LAWRENCE R ZIPF, 338 Station Ave., Haddonfield, NJ 08033; STUART 

Sylvan Rd, Westport, CT 06880; FRED J, WILLIAMS, 4308 Ward Rd, Durham, NC 27704: JAMCS E WILLIAMS JR., Rt 1 Eox 36: a, Plymouth, NC Shwwood Dr.. Wilmington, DE 19808; ROBERTO T. ZORI, 32 6635 St, Long Island C'./„ NY 11106: LUCINOA A, ZUCK, 5911 Ballinger Rd., 
27962: JANICE GILL WILLIAMS, 3609 Blue Spring Rd,, Huntsvllle, AL 35810; JEAN C. WILLIAP'S. 403 S Court St,, Crown Point. Greensboro, NC 27410; LINDA S. ZURN, 752 Fettersmill Rd.. Huntington . V Pa 19006; KATHRYN J ZUSPAN, 5723 Sc Kenwood Ave,, Chicago, 

An Open Letter 

to next year's editor 

This letter is necessarily as much tor the general reader's eyes as 
for your own, but I would hope that you could benefit from a dis- 
cussion of our foundations this year, and of the foundations for 
yearbooks in general. You have by now run the gauntlet of the ac- 
ceptance procedure, you are officially the holder of the position; 
your signature, or even your name, may mean something in certain 
circles, open doors, accomplish tasks. That is the first thing you will 
find — a rather pleasant encumbrance. It will be only one of the 
many things that conspire to turn you from the tasks at hand: a) 
creating or finding the material to fill 300-1- white, blank pages, and 
b) creating or finding the artistic whole implicit in the material. It 
may be some consolatioti to reflect upon the impossibility of the 
latter task: no one has yet succeeded, to my knowledge, and year- 
books have been printed since the middle 1800's . . . 

Since that time we have seen a definite, though poorly-defined, 
progression in the concept of a yearbook. At first, it was strictly a 
rcc ord ot official functions, organizations, and people at the college. 
[his has Ijccii Its function in the majority of cases, at least until the 
last 10-15 years, when there has been a shift, or readjustment. The 
wortl "creative" has been used to describe the direction of this 
shift, although most of the books calling forth that word have 
hardly been creative in any meaningful, lasting sense. Nevertheless, 
they have represented a distinct departure from the stultifying 
l)ooks of the 40's and 50's. 

The fault of those books was simply that they persisted in pre- 
senting an officially sanctioned view of the university at a time the 
university experience was radically changing, a view that must nec- 
essarily find recognition of those changes inconvenient. But not 
only did the book persist in using outmoded forms, the techni- 
cal processes that had once worked so well had undergone a pro- 
found change. In the earlier part of this century all yearbooks were 
()rinted using the letterpress method: photographs were reproduced 
l)V being individually etched on metal plates. The process imposed 
(crldin limitations on the photography and typography - it was 
ex[)ensive to engrave the pictures, meaning that only the most es- 
sential would be used, and the printer offered a limited variety of 
type faces to choose from, with few display faces (used for head- 
ings). The best yearbooks of that time adapted themselves to these 
limitations, and evolved a lean, sparse layout style of undeniable 
( larity and beauty. The most important individuals on campus, such 
as beauty queens and administrators, were given full page photo- 
graphs. In fact, a staple of Duke yearbooks of the 30's was a section 
devoted to full page portraits of the editor's and Business Man- 
ager's mothers, and staff "favorites." (For some inexplicable reason, 
the mothers were called "sponsors," as in: "Editor's Sponsor." Per- 
sonally, I would never put a picture of my mother in the yearbook.) 

But with the advent of high quality offset lithography, the look of 
the reproduced photograph changed, in a subtle but perceptible 
way. The new process was able to do more for the casual photo- 
journalistic style than for the formal portrait. Also, the 40's brought 
the development of 35 mm technology, which lil)eraled the photog- 
rapher from his bulky equipment. 

Or at least it should have. The possibilities of the new miniature 

formats (including IViXlVz) were almost immediately explored by 
the professional magazines; this was the heyday of Life, which then 
specialized in the finest photojournalism in the world. Unfortunate- 
ly, it took over twenty years before yearbook staffs were familiar 
with the new techniques — during that time yearbooks suffered as a 
result. This was in part because equipment was already owned, and 
equipment changeover in marginally financed activities must be 
slow; partly because it took that long for a new aesthetic to form, 
so that an undergraduate could assimilate the work within. 

Yet even today few yearbooks are taking advantage of the tre- 
mendous possibilities in expression open to them, it will not do to 
put it down to "conservatism," or some such, which is too vague to 
be of use. I think, rather, that it has to do with the way yearbooks 
are funded: often a part of student fees, budgeted through the 
University structures. In this way the institution begins to feel that 
since it is financing the yearbook, the yearbook ought to serve it. 
In fact, this need to justify every item in a budget has led to an en: 
tirely new form of art, flowering in this century: Institutional Art. 
This naturally leads to all sorts of restraints not only on what is, ex- 
pressed, but also on the form of expression. (At Duke the Pub 
Board shields us from the whims of the Administration, but do not 
for a moment imagine that the same restraints, though more subtle, 
are not operating.) 

A yearbook is in the peculiar position of being an art form in 
spite of all original intentions, in response to some inner will that 
constantly pushes it out of shape, into the realm of art, now at one 
out-of-the-way college, now at the next. The original mandate to 
record the year is seen by the staff as an increasingly subtle and elu- 
sive goal. The pressure for change comes from within, from the 
hearts of those who sweat and swear over the work; the institution 
itself remains oblivious to their efforts. 

Back to specifics. A complicating fact is that most students aren't 
in the mood for artistic yearbooks, either, having been conditioned 
to the fare at the high school level. Two years ago there was pub- 
lished at Duke a yearbook that, whatever else, was certainly 
different: two softbound blue volumes, with much student writing 
and some obscenity. The protest was loud and bitter, casting the 
future of the book itself into doubt. Last year's staff certainly felt 
constrained by their feeling of responsibility for the book's contin- 
ued existence; while we this year, though not rejecting any material 
for fear of negative reaction, gave much thought as to how it might 
be most effectively presented, without losing the sympathy of the 
entire audience. Basically, there were three elements of a conscious 
plan to insure acceptance. 

First, we instituted a program of sub-editorships, drawing from 
the university community people with little previous publications 
experience. At the beginning of the year we made it known that we 
were looking for volunteers who were involved in an activity per- 
sonally important to themselves, and who wanted to share that ac- 
tivity on the pages of the Qaqticleef . We gave them all the assis- 
tance we could. This plan had several advantages it was a conven- 
ient way of ascertaining what to cover; anything important enough 
for people to put time and effort into presenting. It seemed fair. 

Also, the system generated quantities of material to fill those fear- 
some blank pages, and generated a constant flow of psychic energy. 
A yearbook staff will always distill down to a small core of people 
who are willing to live with it night and day, to sacrifice all else, at 
least for a time. The problem is to avoid ingrown ideas, and conse- 
quent inflammation and swelling of heads. This is minimized by the 
constant influx of contributors who couldn't care less about artistic 
vision, who are only concerned with getting the message across. 

Most important in this context is that the sub-editors are able to 
reach and tap a much larger segment of the student body than the 
unassisted central staff. This not only adds to the comprehen- 
siveness of the book, but instills an anticipation on campus for the 
final result that can not but help. Although only eighty or ninety 
people are listed in the credits, at least another fifty more have con- 
tributed in anonymous ways, through the sub-editors' channels, 
whose names we will never know. 

The second element concerns dealing with the material once it is 
gathered: finding a consistent editorial tone to edit from; and estab- 
lishing a layout style that carries the meaning intended, without 
obfuscation. In general our style has been to let the photographs 
and copy dictate the layout on each two-page s[)read. This has led 
us in some cases into a similarity with magazine formats, although 
this is not universally true. Frankly, we are hoping that the audience 
familiarity with magazines in this culture will lead to an acceptance 
of our style, but this of course remains to be seen. 

The third element was the attempt to more accurately define our 
audience. This was a two-fold process The Publications Board sur- 
veyed the students the year after the blue lK)ok to cl(>termine both in- 
terest in and what was expected of f^ublications like the Qaqticleer. 
It was found that although students thought it was an essential 
feature of the university, and although they said they favored a 
more "creative" book, they hadn't much liked the creativity they 
had seen the previous year. That gave some clues as to what inter- 
nal restraints to impose. The second step was forced upon us by 
circumstances - selling the book. Although this limited circulation 
(which is not good), it identitied lor us the ()eople we have prime 
responsibility to (which is good). Considering that every copy pub- 
lished has a readership ol at least, say, live people, actual reading 
circulation is [:)robably not diminished that much. 

Unfortunately, there are severe disadvantages to this scheme for 
doing a book, which I haven't yet indicated. Because of them, I 
would not recommend it for every school, nor every year for 
schools that could manage it. First, and least important, is that it is 
more ex|)ensive. More photographers will use more sup|:)lies, more 
long-distance calls will be made, more incidental expenses accumu- 
lated. For t)ublications on a tight budget, such as ours, this might 
mean that some salaries do not get paid. That is not a good method 
of attracting talented and qualified personnel. There is also the 
scheduling fac tor: it is hard to coordinate the massive flow of mate- 
rial, to channel it into the right hands for typing, editing, layout, 
and to do it with any degree of precision so that deadlines may be 
met. The biggest disappointment of this year's effort is that we 
missed our final deadline by an entire month. This is not crucial 
With a fall delivery book, but it inconveniences the printer, who has 
people hired in antic i()ati(;n of a certain workload. It causes frayed 
nerves and bad tempers all around, and based on experience I 
would not recommend it to anyone. Do as I say, not as I did. 

Perhaps most overwhelming of all the disadvantages is the sheer 
time required. The central staff worked a 10 hour day from Novem- 
ber through June, with only rare and scattered exceptions, that is 
besides the allnighters that were sprinkled so liberally throughout 
the closing weeks. For the editor it was even worse — 18 and 20 
hour days clustered like grapes; I began to feel guilty about sleep- 
ing. An editor's job is always hard, but its difficulty increases pro- 
portionate to the amount of material handled, and the variety of 
different treatments given that material. Not to mention the natural 
hassles involved in satisfying various persons who carry an interest 
in the publication, such as our Business Manager, or the Publica- 
tions Board. 

Many times this year I have regretted taking the job; I have sworn 
many awful and mighty oaths never to undertake anything like it 
again. You will do an equivalent amount of cussing, I am sure. And 
yet one just doesn't give up, though at times that seems wisest. 

The reason for this is that there are rewards equal to the frustra- 
tions. There is no gratification quite like doing photography like 
this, watching your friends grow in their control of the art, and their 
power in it. Regardless of the quality of the final product, one finds 
the photographic process itself as deep as life: man is alloted only 
so much time to do his work. Every second spent in mixing chemi- 
cals, or watching the image rising from the developer, is seen as 
sacred, inviolable; and it should all be done with great attention. 
Through the camera, one enters into an extended meditation on 
world; it is the interface of matter and spirit. Then there is the 
pleasure, delicate and ephemeral, of creating a thing in harmony 
with itself, in concert with other people. It is as if an entirely 
new channel of communication is opened between you and those 
sharing in the creation, a secret knowledge, private and intense, 
waiting only time and events to burst open like a ripe fruit, shower- 
ing the world with seed. Often a photographer would bring us a 
just-completed print, excellent, and stand amazed and pleased 
while the staff would break into a tribal dance of ecstacy, of 
triumph, bouncing off the walls and slapping hands; or they would 
join in. We evolved a rarified sense of our own existence — we, 
workers on the yearbook — that at the same time both excluded ev- 
eryone else and invited them along for the flying saucer ride. 

But the one benefit that was most unexpected, most needed, 
amazing when arrived, was the love that flowed from one person to 
another, that pulsed throughout the year. It was the vital spark that 
sustained us all, at times the most far out spiritual high, always the 
foundation of our work. It leaves me humbly grateful to those who 
worked with us. 

Ned Earle 



The 1972 Duke Qaqticleer was printed in an edition of 2150 co- 
pies by Western Publishing Co., of Cambridge, Md. Two paper 
stocks were used: Warren's Cameo Dull and Cameo Gloss. Type 
styles included (in body copy) Palatino, Optima, and News 
Gothic. Head Styles included nearly everything ynder the sun, 
since we had access to a whole stack of Press-type transfer letter- 
ing. The cover was done by S. K. Smith Co., and it's a fucker, 
isn't it? 

photo credits 

Photographers not already credited in the body of the book are cre- 
dited below. We would have liked to be more specific and indicated 
page positions, but it just wasn't possible. Our apologies in advance for 
any oversights or inaccuracies. It is a hopeful sign to us that of these 
55 photographers, 40 are undergraduate students at Duke. 
Sue Bastress 9, 40, 71, 108, 123, 125, 198, 261. Clay Chase 15, 40, 41, 
170, 172, 173, 183, 202, 203. John Covington 110-114, 198. Dave 
Darling 8, 9, 18-22, 25-26, 28-29, 35, 42, 55-56, 73, 82-83, 85, 87-89, 
93-94, 96-97, 101, 105, 117-118, 146, 153-154, 158-159, 167, 169, 184, 
202-203, 206, 244-245, 268, 280, 303, 326. Dahalt Divit 12, 26, 32, 55, 
88, 97, 102, 150, 181, 198, 203. Steven Dunn 97. Ned Earle 10-13, 
33-39, 44-46, 48-57, 59, 84, 88, 93-94, 96, 106, 152, 154, 156-157, 172, 
174, 176-177, 179-180, 183-184, 206-207, 236, 243, 245, 326-328. Bill 
Easton 15, 174. Harold Frank 108, 171, 178, 264. J. T. Gilchrist 8, 
13-14, 96, 198. Stan Grode 294. Mark Handler 243. Duncan Heron 

203, 286. Bob Hewgley 41, 75, 78, 194. Pete Hilbig 7, 58, 204. Mei-ku 
Huang 204. Steve Huffman 54, 108. Sam Joseph 12-14, 41, 56, 125, 
172, 199, 281. John Katzenmeyer 7, 42-43, 50, 52, 81-82, 102, 150-151, 
156, 158, 178, 198, 245. Tina Kaupe 86, 171, 184, 258. Eli Kramer 154. 
Richard Kramer 10, 184, 188, 197, 200-201, 204-205, 208, 210. Toni 
Kramer 200. Jill Krementz 182. Nils Leininger 56. Chuck Lewis 195, 
202-203, 207, 209, 212. Kathy Lipscius 259. Vic Lukas 6 (with Dan 
McCorrison), 7, 11, 15, 17, 38, 100, 195, 199, 206, 207, 210. Peg 
Melville 179, 203. John Menapace 185, 186. Dave Millsop 115. Hank 
Minor 25, 35, 107, 175, 199, 206, 207. Doug Moore 68-69. Cathy 
Murphy 168, 294. Ahrnk Navid 24, 27, 43, 73, 90, 109, 175, 183, 202, 

204. Eduardo Nunez 126. Don Piper 203, 282. Rob Poole 116-117, 121. 
Jim Pou 199, 202, 326. Joanna Priess 126-127. ROTC 60-67. Lynn 
Saville 104. Thad Sparks 92, 167, 169. Jock Stender 277. Robb Turner 
297. Jay Van Santen 125, 291, 293. Sidney J. Wain, Inc. 96. Jim 
Wallace 33, 48, 94, 168. Max Wallace 44, 46, 48-49, 56, 127, 195. John 
Washington 157, 177, 299. Jim Williams 104-105, 108. Jim Wilson 49, 
81, 102. John Wimbush 104, 105, 107. Terris B. Wolffe 47, 52-53. Ric 
Yardumian 125, 158, 171, 174, 199, 207. Bruce Young 245. Maralee T. 
Youngs 8, 9, 12, 13, 14, 23, 44, 45, 50, 51, 95, 126, 168, 170, 172, 175, 
199, 202, 207, 275. 

"J write to shorten the time " — Knut Mam son 



These were the six paid positions: 

Editor - Ned Earle 

Photo Editor — Dave Darling 

Layout — John Katzenmeyer 

Mug Shot Section — Rue Harrison 

Ad Manager — Doug Lovett 

Business Manager — Terry Wolff 
Following is a list of Sub-editors and contributors: 

Rob Poole — Bicycling 

Lynne Piatt — Afro-American 

Jock Ireland — Studio Art 

Sig Tannenbaum — Residential 

Graeme Gibson — Performing Arts 

Chip Edwards — Sports 

Clay Owens — Music 

Bob Dahlberg — Duke University Marching Band 

Pete Hilbig, Gordon Stevenson — ROTC 

Doug Moore — Roaches 

Susan Carol Robinson — Campus Crusade for Christ article 

John Coan — Politics 

Chan Smith — Bureaucracy 

Jon Carmel — Intergalactic Food Conspiracy 

Dave Williamson — Angus McDougall article 

John Covington — Outing Club 

Pete Syverson — Sailing 

Vic Lukas — Anthropology pictures 

Doug Lovett — Big Time in Durham and Letters to the Editor 

Nancy Wallace — Spaceship Duke; Art by Landman (Nancy's cousin) 

Martha Maiden, Chris Carroll — Women 

Richard and Toni Kramer — Birth section 

Dan Willis - Zen 

Bob Hewgley — Photographic Vision 

Ed Harrison — Duke Trip 

Rees Davis — Quaver Pale 

Don Etheridge 

Steve Emerson 

Steve Dunn 

Harv Linder 

Peg Melville 

Thorn Price 
We were fortunate to have two typists whose dedication to the job 
made them invaluable: Martha Maiden and Bruce Young. 
Additional typing by: 

Robin Dodds 

Steve Schewel 

Rue Harrison 

Ed Harrison 
A special debt is owed to John Menapace, who advised on matters of 
both production and creation; it was his idea to open the yearbook to 
the community through the sub-editor plan. More importantly, the 
example he has set in his photography has been, I am sure, the primary 
cause for the artistic strength of photography here. He taught a year- 
book-sponsored photographic seminar this year on sequencing, the 
influence of which can be seen on every page of this book. It would 
not be an exaggeration to say that without John this project would have 
stumbled onto a far rockier and less fertile ground. 

We have received much-needed help from the professional people at 
Western Publishing Co.: from Fritz Hafner, the representative; Carl 
Peterson, Sales Manager; Bill Walker, office manager, and many others 
at the plant. One of their employees proved indispensable in his con- 
tribution to this book: Mark Stewart, the Director of Design. Mark 
taught us how to work, surpassing all previous hmits of endurance. In 
time the book became a labor of love for him, also. Only his modesty 
prevents further praise. 

photo phunnie: 
"The Sneeze" 
1. to r. 
d. darling 
n. earle 
j. katzenmeyer 
d. lovett 
a. fallguy 


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